


leave your baggage at the door

by statueofsirens



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Be Nice to Anders, Be Nice to Merrill, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood and Violence, Companions, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Drunkenness, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fantasy Racism, Just fuckin be nice, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not getting along? now you share a tent, Polyamory, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Team Bonding, These three will care about each other or so help me god, Trigger warning for rape mentions, Trust Issues, nothing explicit but still
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22145260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statueofsirens/pseuds/statueofsirens
Summary: It was foolish. Chaotic.Unpredictable. But the freedom of it, the uncertainty, began to slither into Fenris’s mind and leave an odd warmness in its wake.In which three idiots learn to stop placing labels on each other's shoulders, and see each other as people.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Anders/Fenris/Merrill (Dragon Age), Anders/Merrill, Fenris & Anders, Fenris & Merrill (Dragon Age), Fenris/Merrill, Merrill & Anders
Comments: 62
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my addition to the PLEASE BE NICE TO EACH OTHER club of Merrill-Anders-Fenris fans. My own twist is not only do I want them to be nice to each other, I want them to (eventually) be nice to each other with their pants off. 
> 
> It should be noted that in this chapter there is a (brief) scene where Fenris mistakes something he sees for sexual assault. It is non-graphic and, as stated, a misunderstanding, but I wish for any reader to be aware before they proceed.

The moments in between the fighting, Fenris thought, were the most perplexing.

It was one thing to feel the rush of adrenaline as he raced across ground, hefting his sword, and ducking the flurry of blades, flying bolts, and sizzling magic. No matter the ally, or the opponent, there was a stride to battle. To duck and weave, to edge forward until their foe had no cover, to cleave bodies in two while allowing instinct to guide his way between friendly daggers and supportive spells. Magic was easiest to ignore when the prickle along his lyrium heralded nothing more than a familiar shield, or healing spells that washed over him nearly as soon as a wound glanced his side. Even the harsher spells, horror washing over a staggering marauder, leaving an opening for an arrow to the neck or his hand around a spine, faded into the background. 

When blood was shed, it was easiest to accept his strange companions as his allies. There was no confusion, no hesitance, no paranoia. Together they stood in victory or fell in bloodshed. It was simple. 

Before and after were less so. When they ceased to be well oiled machines of warfare, and stood as confusing creatures of questionable intent and unpredictable behavior. 

Trust and understanding were so much more difficult to afford when they spooned out his meals, or kicked his shins in crowded tents. 

Often, Fenris found himself by the fireside as they made camp, just trying to make _sense_ of them. Why Hawke was allowed near the cooking pot when she inevitably burned anything she attempted to prepare, or why they even bothered with the farce of tasking Isabela to gather wood if all she would do was sweet-talk someone else into the job. 

Aveline would often delegate watch duty during the evenings, but sometimes demand to spar when still too restless after battle. Isabela would flirt and make games of stealing trinkets from their pockets only to try and barter them back, but sometimes slip away to sleep alone in her tent before others followed. Varric would whittle with patient hands as he told stories, but another night turn to dare Hawke into ill-timed drinking contests for the sheer gall of it. 

Sebastian would pray, but laugh under his breath at vulgar jokes when he thought no one would hear. Anders would rant over his foolish and doomed cause, then give into some strange impulse to sit quietly as he braided plaits into the nearest woman’s hair. 

Merrill would tell Dalish folktales with her hands animated and flapping, but the next night sit silent as she watched the fire burn. 

All of it was foolish. Chaotic. _Unpredictable_. But the freedom of it, the uncertainty, began to slither into Fenris’ mind and leave an odd warmness in its wake. 

*****

Everyone’s quirks weren’t as dichotomous as he first thought. Some nights they were restful and restless, and that was when the chaotic playfulness took root. Others, when tired and straining under some unknown sadness, sleep was the only cure.

Even then, some things seemed to be certain. Isabela flirting. Hawke making quick and sly comments. Merrill blathering and fussing. 

Varric snoring. 

The dwarf snored like a quake in the stone his people came from. Grating and rumbling, making teeth clench and rattle until a reprieve in his breath, then starting all over again. Hawke was relegated to sharing with him almost instantly, as she was the only one who slept heavily enough to manage any rest. Isabela often brought her own tent, but on occasion would slip into the shared canvas with a wink. “If I can sleep through a storm on the open ocean, I can withstand a dwarf,” she’d quipped, refusing Merrill’s offer of cotton to plug her ears. 

This left Fenris with the others. Aveline was fine enough as a tent partner; she slept quietly and kept to her own space, and seemed to bolt awake at sunrise with ease. But Aveline was now guard captain, and rarely had the time for trips to the coast, or up Sundermount, as she once had. Sebastian as well was courteous, often whispering soft prayers before sleep that Fenris would never admit to finding soothing, before turning on his side and not moving again until daybreak. 

But Sebastian and Hawke were often at odds, which left Fenris with the mages. 

Merrill wasn’t loud, but restless. She would wiggle and fidget, tossing and turning, almost assuredly kicking at shins or kneeing groins. Once, to Fenris’ satisfaction, she had elbowed the abomination hard enough in the eye to bruise. The man had lurched awake and nearly set the tent on fire around them, his sleep addled brain somehow certain that there were darkspawn attacking. 

Fenris might have taken a little too much appreciation in his task of tackling the mage back to the ground, even with an equally confused Merrill sputtering and putting out the flames behind them. 

Merrill had been confined to the tent edge after that incident. Still near enough to the human to land the occasional kick, but most of her tossing and turning now met the well-worn canvas of the tent itself. 

Unfortunately, that left Fenris between the entry flap and the abomination himself. 

If Merrill was a terror of sharp elbows and knees, Anders was _truly_ an abomination. 

He had nightmares. He talked in his sleep. On occasion, he _screamed_. He also gave off heat like a wood stove, and Fenris’ couldn’t determine if this oddity was the result of the man being human, or a mage. As the nights warmed with the turn towards summer, Fenris would often find himself sweating all down one side, feeling stifled and irritable whenever the mage shifted too near. 

It wasn’t just the damnable body heat or the unintelligble muttering. 

It wasn’t surprising the man stripped away his ridiculous coat and boots when he slept. Fenris himself would remove his breastplate and gauntlets to sleep in his undershirt and leggings. Merrill was modest, but often lost her chainmail and belt. Armor was uncomfortable to sleep in as any knew, but somehow by morning it wasn’t uncommon to find Anders had also shucked his outer robe in his sleep. Or on one awkward and horrifying morning, his robe, tunic, _and_ his shirt. 

Logic told Fenris that the blasted heat was the culprit, but logic wouldn’t calm his galloping heart at waking to find so much bare skin tucked into his personal space. The curling hairs on the mage’s chest scratched at the lyrium lines of his hand from where the mage seemed to hunch all around him, and a freckled shoulder pressed against his own. 

Later, Hawke had called his hoarse shouting an overreaction. Merrill had insisted that grabbing the man by his hair and hurling him from the tent was simply _mean_. 

Isabela and Varric simply found it hilarious. They wolf whistled and laughed from where porridge was being thickened over the fire, each peal of laughter seeming to stain the affronted mage a deeper shade of red. 

“You really know how to make an entrance, Blondie.” Varric ribbed while the mage spluttered and picked himself up. 

“Is it my nameday already?” Isabela cooed, all teeth and sly eyes. “Sun’s barely over the horizon, and I already have a stripped apostate at my feet.” 

Varric raised a brow. “You often have stripped apostates at your feet, Rivaini?” 

“A rare experience, unfortunately. Although this one is stirring up some fond memories.” Isabela’s eyes glinted with mischief. “And here I’d thought you’d put your days of showmanship behind you, Anders. I’ve misjudged you. I don’t suppose you’d like to help me show lovely Varric here that little trick of yours? You can do your spicy shimmy while you shed those trousers for me.” 

“Spicy shimmy?” Hawke questioned, eyes torn from the porridge which had rapidly turned from thick to gluelike. 

“Haven’t the time, I’m afraid,” the blond man interrupted, standing with as much dignity as he could manage in nothing but a poorly fitting pair of trousers that had been rolled several times at the waist and belted. “Now if you’ll excuse me; I’ve an elf to throttle.” 

Turning on heel, they chuckled at the fierce blush that crept up his shoulders to his ears. 

There was no throttling. Just a shared glare at the entryway of the tent, a brief test of resolve, before Fenris jerked his chin and allowed the sulking abomination to pass. 

It wasn’t until later that Fenris thought to question the blush high on Merrill’s cheeks when the man had stumbled back into the tent to gather his clothing. 

*****

It was several weeks later that the pirate and dwarf nearly shattered the fragile peace.

The mission itself had been unremarkable. Several small camps of bandits had taken up along the coast, and with the guard stretched thin and in need of new recruits, Aveline had called in the favor. The weather had been favorable, their party hale and strong, and the dispatch had been complete before sunset. 

With clear skies and buoyed by victory, they had made camp quickly. 

Perched on a tree stump, their dwarf looked more the part of a haughty king than a dust streaked adventurer. “Alright kids,” Varric drawled, shuffling a deck of cards with quick, thick fingers. “Wicked Grace, or Diamondback?” 

“Are we playing for fun or coin?” Hawke asked, dumping driftwood into the fire before settling nearby. 

“What kind of questions is that? I only play for coin. Or clothes. Or, I suppose, _favors_.” By the end of the last word, Isabela’s expression was lascivious. 

“Oh, we can bet favors?” Merrill trilled, perking up from where she had settled cross legged into the sand. “I could bet those! I can bake a wonderful-” 

“Not the kind of favors Rivaini has in mind, Daisy.” 

“But what other kind are there? Oh, is it dirty? What kind of-” 

Fenris interrupted before the conversation could spiral further. “I am in favor of coin, and Wicked Grace.” 

“Put me down for Wicked Grace as well,” the abomination agreed, seating himself on a low log next to Isabela. “Minus the coin. I’ve hardly had it in my pocket an hour and you lot are already trying to make a beggar of me.” 

“You could always play for favors,” Hawke smirked, propping her chin on her hand. 

“Only if they’re Merrill’s idea of favors,” he smiled tiredly in return. 

“Or,” Fenris suggested archly. “You could simply not play.” 

The mage’s mocking smirk was jarring when it followed the lopsided smile before it. “Still bitter I won those thirty silver last week?” 

“A fool’s luck. You have worse tells than the witch herself.” 

“I’ll have you know I used to be an excellent card player. Unfortunately, a spirit of what’s just and right has strong feelings on acts of dishonesty. Meddling killjoy that he is.” 

“Oh, I had wondered about that!” The Dalish witch was suddenly leaning forward, her hands braced in her lap and large eyes shining. Her sudden intrigue made Fenris uneasy. “It makes _sense_ doesn’t it? After all, a spirit of righteousness like Justice must be quite troubled by deception-” 

“Enough.” He barked with a sneer. “If you two would like to wax poetic on your love of demons, do it elsewhere.” 

The abomination’s refusal was thunderous. “Justice is _not_ \--” 

“Enough children,” Isabela interrupted, thrusting a cup into the stewing mage’s hand, before slinking over to Fenris to hand him another. “Let’s all stop the shouting and settle for an evening of cards and steamy glares over the fire instead, eh? Just this once, I’ll play for bragging rights alone.” 

Grunting his agreement, Fenris glared balefully at the man as he took a sip from the cup. The wine was weak and watered down, but still refreshing enough to make him relax into his seat and accept his cards. It was a decent hand, but far from a winning one. He considered which to discard before looking back up at his comrades. 

Glancing over, he saw the mage staring distrustfully into his own drink. “Bela? What is this?” 

Clucking her tongue, the pirate discarded one of her cards immediately. Fenris was also sharp to notice another slid into her bracer. “Tea with a splash of wine, tiger. Nothing too fancy.” 

Despite the flippancy of her answer, the man still seemed perturbed. “What kind of wine?” he asked, taking a shallow sip. 

“Just some Antivan stuff I brought along, Blondie.” Varric answered, not looking away from his own hand. “I save the worst vintages for traveling. Nobody’s going to cry over a bottle that green meeting its end on a sharp rock.” 

Frowning, Fenris took a sip from his own cup and rolled the wine over his tongue and palate. Even watered as it was, he was nearly certain it was nothing more than a common Marcher red, lacking the robust pepperiness of most Antivan blends. Looking towards the mage, he noted that the man seemed appeased, and was now taking full swallows from the cup. 

Ever the observer, Fenris made a note of the way Varric and Isabela shared a look when she refilled the cup a few minutes later. 

*****

The mage was drunk.

No, more accurately, the mage was _sloshed_. 

It had started seemingly slowly. His posture, often so tight and alert, relaxing as the minutes passed. His cheeks and throat flushed, first attributed to the sun having left its mark, but later to the drink in his cup. Then his laughter, often a chuckle, turning into obnoxiously loud guffaws after a particularly ribald joke. 

Soon, it seemed to move with the speed and destruction of a landslide. The man started listing to the side, not quite seeming to understand which direction was which, or what a straight back was supposed to mean. 

Fenris stared at the man, first in shock, then in disgust. 

“Maker, Anders. Are you alright?” Hawke, who was so often unflappable, appeared just as confounded as Fenris felt. 

“I’m fine!” His volume control seemed to be suffering as well, for next to him Isabela winced at the exclamation. “I’m better than fine. I’m excellent—superb, really. The last time I felt like this was... was... Amaranthine? Amaranthine... you’ve been there, haven’t you Izzy?” 

The pirate chuckled throatily. “Not my favorite port, but not my least, either. The brothel was tiny.” 

“Wasn’t it? And such terrible décor. But that one dwarven girl, with the braids?” 

“Ooh, she was _deliciously_ nimble. Such a lovely surprise. I kept telling her she’d make a fortune at the Pearl.” 

Varric interjected with a chuckle. “Didn’t take you as the kind of human that went for dwarven girls, Blondie.” 

Fenris expected another one of the too loud, too free laughs from the mage. Instead what followed was an unexpected silence. When he looked, he found the man staring at his friend with what looked like hurt. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “I like all kinds of girls. And boys. I never much cared about what race they were.” Suddenly, the mage reared back as though the dwarf had reached across the camp to slap him. “You think I’m racist, Varric? What—have I—what did I say to make you think that?” 

The dwarf raised a hand in a soothing motion. “Easy there, kiddo. Just thought a tall fella like you might get a crick in your neck, that’s all.” 

“That’s why you lay down and let them stra-” 

“So!” Hawke interrupted, much to Fenris’s appreciation. “The brothel in Amaranthine. What ridiculous name did that one have? The Dripping Lily? The Scarlet Rosebud?” 

“Hawke,” Fenris lamented, squeezing his eyes shut. “That was somehow worse than anything the abomination was about to say.” 

“Why?” Merrill asked, head whipping to look from face to face. “I though the Scarlet Rosebud sounded quite pretty.” 

From where they were perched on the log, both humans nearly howled with laughter. Isabela had to reach several times to keep the mage steady. 

“The Mermaid’s Landing,” Isabela finally said, nearly breathless. 

“Most of what they served there was utter swill, but they sometimes got in this lovely Antivan brandy.” Anders said between hiccupping breaths. “Made with honey, I think. It certainly made sitting on those wretched orange brocade chairs worth it.” The human mage broke off, breath huffing as he fanned his flushed face. “Maker, I’m warm. Hot really, and-- I’m-- something. Izzy, I’m fine, aren’t I?” 

“The finest, sweet thing.” 

“Oh dear,” Merrill murmured, tilting her head. “You really are quite flushed, Anders.” 

“It’s _hot_ ,” the mage said, his breath catching on the word and trailing into a plaintive whine. Immediately freckled hands were fumbling with the chain connecting his feathered pauldrons, and Isabela was batting the hands away. With deft fingers she unclasped it herself, and stood to lift them from the man’s shoulders. 

“Bela, don’t undress him!” Hawke squawked. 

Snorting, the pirate shook her head. “He needs some air. Untwist your knickers, Hawke.” 

“Somehow, all this talk about brothels and a stripping mage does not comfort me into thinking your motives are purely altruistic.” 

Piping up, Merrill came to Isabela’s defense. “But she's just helping! Look at him, he looks like he’s going to be ill.” 

“Which he would likely not be,” Fenris drawled, watching each one of them sharply. “If the only contents of that cup had been tea and weak wine.” 

Merrill and Hawke both paused to ponder that. 

Throwing his cards down, Varric sighed. “Fine, I had a flask of that sweet Rivaini moonshine, and we decided to help Blondie loosen up a bit.” 

Hawke gaped even as Fenris rolled his eyes. “Varric, you can’t just spike a man’s drink!” 

“Sometimes friendship is making the tough calls, Hawke. It was just a little bit! Mixed it right into the kettle. How was I supposed to know he was a lightweight?” 

Squinting over at the dwarf, Isabela caught the leaning mage’s shoulder to keep him upright. “I thought the plan was for me to sneak it into his cup? I’ve been doing it all evening.” 

Remarkably silent, the archer stared at the woman for a long moment before glancing back to the kettle sitting innocently nearby. “Well, shit.” 

The silence was long, and only broken by the sudden sound of retching. 

Heaving a sigh, Fenris pointed at the two rogues. “You two idiots made this mess. He’s yours to deal with.” 

“Can you make sure he’s done before you put him to bed?” The blood mage suggested. “I’m happy to help, but I’d rather not wake up to sick in the tent.” 

*****

It was the squeak that woke him. Breathy and high pitched, slightly muffled. Eyes cracking open to the gloom of the tent, Fenris’ first thought was that perhaps some unfortunate hare or fox had gotten caught in the protective glyphs circling the perimeter of the camp. But something was wrong, because after so many nights he knew the shapes of the cramped tent well, and the shadowed hills and valleys that made for the sleeping forms of his companions.

Where the abomination slept was an empty bedroll, and where the witch laid was-- 

Fenris’ heart stuttered and thundered up into his throat. The human mage was tall and broad shouldered, but when sprawled across Merrill he seemed larger, nearly concealing her slim frame with his own. From where his head was pillowed on his pack, all Fenris could see was the tip of one pale ear, the length of her legs, feet braced on the ground, and the small hand pushing at the abomination’s shoulder. 

Fenris’ heart was choking him as a sudden dread, sour and oily, stung at his throat. A fear and anger gripped him, something primal that roared at the sight of the blood mage (small, feminine, _elven_ ) trapped under the abomination (large, masculine, _human_ ) that pushed him up to a crouch. Even in the gloom he could see their clothing was intact, but it wouldn’t take much, just to slide clothing down and aside and it would just be another human man defiling another elven woman. 

It spoke to the man’s drunkeness that he thought he’d ever accomplish such a crime while Fenris was present. 

They were such fools. An intoxicated human mage, lying amongst elves, and they had thought themselves safe enough to sleep. 

Maker, they had led a wolf to their bedside and bared their bellies to it. 

“Bastard,” Fenris hissed, lighting his brands as he reached for the man. 

Another squeak. More frantic, less hushed, and the hand that had been pushing at the mage was suddenly slapping up to clutch at and cradle the back of his head. “Fenris, no!” Merrill’s head turned enough that he could see the glow of her eyes, the abomination’s face tucked into her neck. 

It suddenly occurred to Fenris, under the weak blue glow of his own brands, that there was very little movement happening for an attempted rape. Regardless, his raised hand didn’t lower, and despite the buzzing itch along his brands, he did not deactivate them. 

“Explain,” he demanded instead, a creep of unease replacing the gallop of his heart. The human mage still had yet to move, likely afraid for his own heart, and Fenris sneered down him to cover his sudden discomfort. 

He remembered the blush that had flooded Merrill’s cheeks as the mage had pulled a shirt on over his head, and wondered. 

No. Not while he was present. Mages were deviant creatures by nature, but the impropriety of it... 

A soft snore interrupted his line of thought. 

Abruptly, all his lingering rage was replaced with bewilderment. 

“He’s what Isabela calls a cuddly drunk, I think,” Merrill babbled in an anxious whisper. Her hand was still clutching the back of Anders’ hair, holding his face to her shoulder, as if afraid that should she let go Fenris would attack the vulnerable curve of his skull. 

Seconds ago, he would have. 

“Oh, he just caught me by surprise, I think! One moment I’m having this lovely dream about the hat shop in Hightown and in it Varric was wearing this _superb_ hat made entirely from the covers of his own books! It was in the Antivan style I think. Or was it Nevarran? I can never keep them all straight. Goodness, I wish it were real, then maybe I could show you Fenris, you’re so well-travelled, I’m sure you’d know. Oh, perhaps I can draw a picture of it for you.” 

Eye twitching, Fenris deactivated his brands and sighed. “To the point, witch.” 

Despite the awkward angle, her chin seemed to bob in a nervous nod. “Well, then I woke up because someone grabbed me, and well, I was a bit startled, you see. After all, with all the stories the Dalish tell, waking up to a shemlen man crawling onto me almost had me casting before I realized who it was, and that he was asleep! But really, he’s rather heavy, but all he seems to want is a cuddle. I was just trying to get him to roll over when you woke up, Fenris, really!” 

There was no reason for Merrill to lie, but Fenris would not deny the curl of caution simmering in his gut. Reaching with a stiff hand, he poked roughly at the mage’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowing when there was little more than a soft grunt at the contact. 

“You are certain, Merrill?” He inquired. “Drink and dream can be a dangerous mix, and bring all manner of beasts from a man’s subconscious to the surface.” 

The Dalish witch just shook her head. “I’m quite sure, Fenris. The only thing that peeked out from his subconscious was a little loneliness, I think. Help me roll him over, so we can go back to sleep?” 

Grunting his agreement, Fenris gripped the man by the shoulder and helped the elven woman roll him onto his side and off of her. He wasn’t quite in his bedroll, more so on the uneven ground between the two, but Fenris deemed it a fitting enough punishment for waking and startling them both. There was no doubt the man would wake with an aching neck and shoulder. 

Turning back towards his own bedding, Fenris stopped and stared as the woman rolled over onto her side, and wriggled backwards until she was tucked up against the human’s chest. She reached behind to grasp his arm and drag it over her waist. Blinking, Fenris shook his head. “Merrill,” asked, tone creeping towards demand. “What in the void are you doing?” 

The blood mage blinked up at him, her eyeshine flickering in the dark. “I told you, he was lonely and wanted a cuddle. This is much more comfortable than using him as a blanket. Creators, for such a thin man he’s certainly _heavy_.” 

“He’s asleep and in a drunken stupor,” he countered, without bothering to ask himself why. “Unless he told you as much, you’re reading what you want into his intentions.” He squinted down at the man and scoffed. The mage had a drop of drool gathering at the corner of his mouth. “We should all sleep on our own mats and forget this come morning.” 

Fenris disliked the look Merrill gave him. It was an expression that seemed to be unique to Dalish elves, one that spoke of wisdom, pride, and the ability to see through others as though they were as transparent and fleeting as campfire smoke. 

“Fenris,” her voice was as soft as it was disappointed. “You’d have to be quite blind to think he isn’t lonely.” 

He shifted his weight uneasily. He’d been a bodyguard, a trained observer, for long enough to easily read between the lines. 

For as lonely as the witch might believe the mage to be, she was just as lonely herself. 

It would be regrettable come morning. The human man would no doubt wake hungover, and would be anywhere between vexed and angry to find himself _cuddled_ with the blood mage. But for the moment there seemed to be no harm. Merrill would satisfy whatever absurd notion for closeness she believed herself and the abomination to share, and Fenris would be able to sleep soundly knowing that he had made the effort to intervene before worse could transpire. 

“Try not to accost one another while I rest,” he said, reluctantly retreating to his own space. 

*****

The Maker was merciful, and by the next morning the witch had detangled herself from the other mage before the rest of them woke. Less fortunately, she had made it to the cooking pot before anyone else, and had cheerily presented them with bowls of something brown and mealy that looked suspiciously like mud.

The mage, squinting against the hangover Fenris had predicted, stared into the bowl with a look of miserable trepidation. 

“This can’t be food,” Fenris heard him mutter to himself more than once, as if trying to convince himself. 

“This looks like Fereldan in a bowl,” Hawke said, staring into the muck with far too much intrigue. If possible, she seemed almost wistful in her mistrust. 

It certainly was unappetizing. “The witch is attempting to feed us refuse,” Fenris concurred. 

“I am not!” Merrill denied, pinkening before squaring her diminutive shoulders. “It’s a traditional Dalish travel potage! Made easily from what you can gather, rather than carting about sacks of grains like the city folk. There’s beech mast, and pine nut, and chicory--” 

“You lot will not besmirch kitten’s hard work,” Isabela tutted, accepting her portion with a kiss to the witch’s cheek. “No heckling the cook if you want to eat.” 

“-- and the fat drippings I saved from the rabbits yesterday, and--” 

“When do you ever refrain from heckling anyone, Rivaini?” Varric quipped, bypassing Anders to reach for his own helping. Even his eyebrow arched at the contents. 

“When I want to eat, obviously.” Raising a single defiant finger, Isabela made sure she caught all their eyes before she scooped some of the mixture and lifted it to her mouth. Her eyebrows did an interesting jig before settling into her usual expression of irreverent slyness. 

Fenris knew it must be foul to have broken her effortless ability to bluff at all. 

“Delicious, kitten.” 

Hawke winced, but one glance at the blood mage’s beaming face had her reluctantly tucking into her own share. “Fuel to the fire,” she joked, and Fenris commended her ability to hide just how strangled her voice really was. “Eat up everyone. We’ve quite the long hike ahead of us today.” 

Fenris shared a dubious look with the dwarf and abomination, but the mage looked particularly hunted. 

“I think I’m too queasy to eat,” he said, making a half decent attempt to look chagrined as he set the bowl down. “Too many years without a drink and those two nearly poisoned me with it last night,” he jerked his chin at the pirate and dwarf, one looking smug and the other only mildly repentant. “I don’t think my stomach can handle such.... hearty fair.” 

“Oh, but it isn’t.” Merrill darted forward and kneeled beside the human, taking his bowl up to hand it back to him. Fenris used the distraction to dump his portion back into the communal pot. “I understand the taste isn’t what you’re used to, but it’s not as _rich_ as most human food. The animal fat is just to help bind the texture, and it has a lot of protein. Just try! You’ll feel better after, you’ll see.” 

Trapped by a large pair of earnest green eyes, the mage had no choice but to dip his fingers in and scoop a mouthful to his lips. 

Only to lick his fingers and stare curiously into his bowl afterwards. 

“Merrill,” he said slowly. “Do the Dalish sometimes eat this on a hard flatbread?” 

Beaming, the blood mage nodded eagerly. “Yes! If you have it, of course. But sometimes we’d make these little flat cakes from acorn flour. Oh, but it’s just as filling by itself. There's all different versions, of course. The hunters called it quick rations, or fast breakfast. Shem’mat-” 

“Shem’mathdea.” The human said with a curling grin. “Commander Mahariel made it as a travel ration sometimes. But he used wild yams, so the color was... different.” 

“Oh,” the small mage breathed. Almost like a sigh. Odd, Fenris thought. Against his better judgement, he found himself stepping closer. “Mahariel. I’d forgotten you knew him.” 

“Only briefly,” the human agreed, inclining his head. His voice was rarely as gentle. “But for the time I knew him, he was a good man. He taught us much, and was a good friend.” 

They lapsed into silence, and for some reason he did not understand, Fenris found himself wanting to fill it. 

“This Mahariel,” he said, playing for incurious by inspecting his foot. “This is the Hero of Fereldan, is he not?” 

Raising his eyebrows, the mage nodded from where he was tucking into his disquieting food with sudden gusto. “The Warden Commander, Hero of Fereldan, Arl of Amaranthine, so on and so forth-” The mage broke off with a snort. “Maker, the poor man had so many titles, and little patience for any of them.” 

“He was from my clan,” the witch added, eyes shimmering with pride. “Losing him to the Grey Wardens was... well, it was too much. But he made us so very proud.” 

Grunting, Fenris looked out over the rocky crags of the coast. “We have a long walk,” he said idly. “Perhaps you two can tell me of him. This elf who saved the world.” 

There was an interesting flash of emotions across the abomination’s face. Distrust, surprise, and then some sort of suspicious intrigue. But it was quickly drowned out by the witch, whose beaming smile threatened to rival the rising sun itself. 

“I’d love to,” she breathed, seeming to shudder from the weight of her joy. Her head whipped to regard the human mage so quickly, Fenris feared she would snap her own neck. “Anders?” 

Blinking, the mage seemed to debate with himself, or possibly, his demon. “I suppose,” he agreed slowly. “Assuming you're truly willing to listen. You might not agree with all of his exploits, after all.” 

“I imagine there is truth to that in the tale of all heroes,” Fenris conceded. 

Merrill bounced up from her crouch, rocking on her heels. “We should pack! Oh Creators, there’s so much for us to talk about. Anders, you simply must tell me whatever you learned from him. I had no idea you had any passing knowledge of—well, _anything_ Dalish.” 

“Neither did I! To be honest, I had no idea so much what was Dalish, and what was... you know, just him. Or Velanna for that matter, once we met her.” 

“Oh, what a pretty name. Another Dalish companion? How exciting!” 

“A pretty girl, too. Pity for her personality, though.” 

“Oh dear, was she quite cross?” 

“Merrill, she punched me with a _tree_.” 

Glaring down at his toes, Fenris wondered if he had just agreed to a day-long headache. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ideally this will be the first part of a story of these three idiots learning to trust, falling into friendship, and then falling into bed. I do, however, have a terrible history with finishing projects. Take that as you may.
> 
> Feel free to visit me on tumblr at statueofsirens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Standing tall and proud, the creature called Justice seemed to take the space the mage’s mortal form occupied and amplify it, making him seem larger and stronger, and tower over the slight elf. Yet somehow, where he radiated power that had no place in the realm of men, for the first time it did not seem overtly malevolent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in all honesty, I did not have Justice planned to really make a full appearance until a bit later. However, hoo boy, did he have other plans.
> 
> I actually like that it took this turn. In order to ever make this triad work, Justice has to be established and acknowledged, and doing so earlier than later just seems to help build a stronger foundation for this journey of trust I'm trying to piece together.
> 
> I dunno, man. Whatever gets us closer to the three of them boning.

_Another day, another pile of corpses._ Fenris thought with grim satisfaction, wiping the blood from his blade.

“Does anyone else think it odd how often we have to clear out this cave?” Hawke mused as she surveyed the slaver bodies crumpled on packed earth. “I mean, how many corpses have we left? You’d think someone would walk in, see that mess, and think to themselves you know what? There must be primer real estate somewhere else. I’ll try that instead.” 

“It is rather dreary, isn’t it?” Merrill said, toeing away from a body at her feet. “But the stalactites have a certain charm, don’t they? Maybe the criminals just think it a fixer upper of sorts.” 

Fenris glowered flatly at the blood mage’s back. “Somehow,” he drawled. “I find myself doubting a few dead would put a slaver off his wish for more coin.” 

With a shrug, Hawke stooped to begin rifling through pockets, gathering trinkets with well-practiced efficiency. “And their coin is our coin, so on and so forth, so really, I guess I shouldn’t complain much, eh?” 

“You really shouldn’t, sweet thing,” Isabela agreed, tinkering with the lock on a chest. “When life gives you opportunity, seize it by the nethers and enjoy the ride.” 

Fenris’s nose wrinkled with that, and immediately stopped when a glance showed the abomination doing the same. “May we not speak of corpses and nether grabbing in the same breath? We should move on.” 

“Agreed,” Anders muttered nearby. Refusing to startle, Fenris cut a suspicious look to the man who was now a few feet closer than he’d been previously. 

Isabela _tsked_ as she popped the lock with a flair of her hands. “The world would be a might more fun if the lot of you would learn to appreciate the little things.” 

“Are the nethers the little things?” Merrill asked, looking far too keen for someone supposedly so innocent. 

Hawke’s expression turned wolfish. “Depends on whose nethers,” she said, looking towards Fenris and the mage. With a grin she waggled her brows. 

“ _Hawke_ , must you-” the mage started, only to be interrupted by a whooping cry from the pirate as she lifted something round and wrapped in an embroidered linen. 

“Save the pearl clutching and nether grabbing for later tonight, my darlings. We have something shiny and valuable to palm at instead.” 

The only thing Fenris was interested in palming at the moment was his face in regards to the juvenile prattle. But as Isabela delicately unfolded the linen wrapping to show some sort of sparkling sphere, curiosity bit at his heels, driving him closer. Boots shuffled at the earth as they gathered around, necks craning to get a better look. 

“Some sort of sky-ball?” Hawke guessed, but the object was not painted black with a sky of constellations. 

“How in the void did one of these get here,” Isabela muttered, turning the wrapped orb over in her hands. Perfectly round, it was a gleaming and polished white, with fine spidering veins of blue. Out of his periphery, Fenris saw the mages shuffling closer. The witch was wide eyed with intrigue, whereas the abomination had his head cocked, as though listening for something. 

Hawke rubbed her dirt smeared chin. “Looks interesting, but not as exciting as a diamond that size would be. Care to share with the class, Bela?” Crouching beside the pirate, she squinted at the sphere. “Is that lyrium?” 

“Yes,” the human mage answered, his voice taking on a strange dissonance. When he reached out towards the object, Fenris slapped the hand away. 

“Ouch!” Hissing, he wrapped glowing fingers around the red scratches on his hand. “What was that for, you broody ass?” 

“Perhaps,” Fenris drawled. “You should allow Isabela to explain just what it is before you touch it. Our last experience with lyrium oddities was hardly a good one.” 

The mage’s expression was mulish, but the tension of his shoulders belied his chagrin. The first few curses he uttered next were under his breath, but he rose just enough in volume for Fenris to clearly hear, “ _You’re_ a lyrium odd-” 

“While your instincts are good,” Isabela cut in, a frown still wrinkling between her brows. “These aren’t dangerous. At least, not in any way I know of.” Teeth plucking at her lower lip, she turned the sphere over a few times, lifting it enough to let the dull light of the torches catch the gleaming surface. “I’ve never seen one of these outside of Rivain, though. They’re a tool used by the seers.” 

Suddenly wary, Fenris took a step away. “Any mage’s tool is sure to have dangerous applications.” 

“Any tool?” The blood witch asked, swinging her staff thoughtfully. “Surely not all tools? After all, my staff is only dangerous if I’m casting with it. Or-- another mage, if they were to use it. But really, they shouldn’t be touching it, if that’s the case. It’s quite _rude_ you know. And my grimoire is just a book if you haven’t any magic. Oh, but I have lots of tools that aren’t magical! My rolling pin isn’t dangerous at all. Unless you were to hit someone with it, I suppose.” 

“My mum once brained a wishful burglar with a rolling pin,” Hawke confirmed. “By the time she was done with him, I imagine he would have preferred whatever spells my father would have cast.” 

“As much as that story builds on my ever-growing respect for Leandra,” the abomination said. “I think I’d prefer an explanation for just what this thing is. The lyrium is both distracting and concerning.” 

“This,” Isabela said with an uncommon frown. “Is a Seer’s Eye. Places where lyrium is thin and has grown through other mineral gets mined and cut, then refined and polished. Whenever a seer has a reading, they disappear to meditate over them.” She snorted with derision. “My mother had one just like this. An agate bauble, barely worth the cost to mine it if not for the lyrium.” More softly, her husky voice wavered. “Kept it on a silk pillow in her bedroom. Like it was precious.” 

A beat of silence fell, and Fenris felt an odd curl in his belly. Isabela was a friend, a person who he little understanding of but a respect for. The idea of her having a mage mother, the idea that her life and family was tied into magic, was disappointing. Even a bawdy pirate who lied through her teeth and chased her fortune and pleasures freely had seemed unsullied when he believed her free from magic’s curse. 

Hawke spoke softly. “I didn’t realize your mother was a seer.” 

Spine straightening, the frown gave way to something neutral and unaffected. “She wasn’t,” the woman said carelessly. “Just a fraud who knew to look the part. Sorry lovely, the lyrium may be worth something, but otherwise this far from Rivain you’re unlikely to get a good price for it.” 

Fenris’s relief was immediate. So immediate he felt the smallest slither of shame and he looked away. 

“Well,” Hawke said, trying to rally some attempt of cheer. “I trust our dwarf to find just the right buyer. Shall we pack up our spoils and go make camp?” 

“Brilliant as always, sweet thing.” The Rivaini woman agreed. She pulled the linen wrapping tight around the globe, and next to him, the abomination made a soft sound of loss. “I’ve had my fill of dank caves for the day.” 

*****

Despite Isabela’s flippancy and Hawke’s irreverent enthusiasm, their small camp was stifling and awkward that evening. Conversations were quick to fall into contemplative silence, and the heavy pack which carried the Seer’s Eye drew wandering attentions. More than once Fenris found himself eyeing that pack, wondering if it might not be better for him to cast the odd sphere into the sea where it would trouble them no longer. 

Over a lackluster supper Fenris studied his companions. He turned to find the abomination staring intently at the pile of packs, the witch watching Hawke watch Isabela, and Isabela regarding them each with a displeased twist to her lips. 

“Well,” the pirate finally announced, in between picking at pieces of charred rabbit and taking swigs of over-steeped tea. “As scintillating as this is, I think it’s time for my beauty rest.” 

With her usual boldness, Hawke was quick to stand. “Would you like some company, Bela? Perhaps Merrill could join us tonight. We could make a girl’s night of it.” 

The pirate snorted and flapped her hand. “And what? Tell ghost stories while we braid each other’s hair? As darling as that sounds, I’ll take a raincheck. The only thing I’d like this evening is some sleep.” 

“But-” 

“I’m happy to take a raincheck!” Merrill trilled, eyes overly wide and earnest. “I can make scones and tell you the tale of Andruil’s duel with The Forgotten One, Anaris.” 

The unhappy curl to the woman’s lips softened, and she looked at the blood witch fondly. “I do love a good duel,” she agreed. “I’ll hold you to that, kitten. For now, goodnight to the lot of you.” With little fanfare the pirate turned to retreat to her tent, and even with the enticing sway of her hips, Fenris found his attention drawn to Hawke. The woman was chewing at her bottom lip looking torn. 

Once he was sure that the rogue was gone and settled, he spoke lowly. “Hawke, you mother hen too much.” 

Turning towards him and blinking, the woman scoffed. “Me? Have you forgotten Aveline? That woman could make mothering into a sport.” Her brow crinkled. “A blood sport, at that.” 

Refusing to take the bait, Fenris narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Isabela is uncomfortable with showing weakness. Today she did so, and your hovering is dragging the moment on rather than letting it settle. Allow the woman her dignity.” 

“And her privacy,” the abomination added. “Not everyone is so free with their pasts, Hawke. She slipped today, and she’s most likely feeling vulnerable for doing so.” Despite his grievances with the man, Fenris found this addition to be fair, and nodded his agreement. 

With two against one, Hawke’s shoulders slumped and she retook her seat. “She’s never mentioned her family before. I just want to help her. Even if she doesn’t want to open up to me.” 

Fingers fussing on her knees, the Dalish elf leaned forward. “You mustn't push so much, lethallan,” she said in low soft tones. For one who blathered aimlessly and with little self-awareness, her voice was cautious and did not carry. A valuable skill to have learned while raised in close quarters to many others. “The men are right. Isabela wants everything to be normal, not our sympathies.” 

“Just act like nothing happened,” Anders advised. “It’s what she wants, and she’ll respect you for it.” 

For a moment, the woman was silent. But then, with a huff and a twitch of her expressive brows, she nodded her acceptance. Appeased, Fenris leaned back into his seat, eager to see the subject ended. 

Hawke appeared to have another idea. Quick as a snake bite her defeated expression turned shrewd and mischievous. 

“Look at you three,” she crooned, eyes sparkling with teasing mirth. “In agreement. _Supporting_ one another.” She gave a dainty gasp, far more fitting of her noble bred mother than a woman wearing hand-me-down armor. Fenris felt his back stiffen. “No bickering, no threatening, no glaring. Have the stars aligned? Is it a miracle by the Maker’s own hand?” 

Cutting a cautious glance at the two mages, he found the human’s nose scrunched in an unattractive grimace and the witch looking curiously up at the stars. 

Looking away from the two, Fenris fixed his attention to Hawke. She was watching them each, easy affection in her eyes, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew if he were to scratch at the cool façade of her fondness there would be a steely challenge beneath it. What made his friend such a brilliant tactician was that she always gave her opponents enough room to let them stumble into traps of their own making. 

“The stars haven’t aligned,” the Dalish elf murmured, her gaze still fixated at the twinkling black canopy above them. “Could you imagine, if they did? Oh, the hahren’s and keepers wouldn’t know what to make of it. Such a thing would be preposterously alarming.” 

“She was not being literal.” Fenris said stiffly. Though his words were spoken to Merrill, his eyes were met with Hawke’s. “And you, my friend, should know even fools can speak with wisdom.” 

The abomination snorted. “Oh, how I love backhanded compliments.” 

Fenris shot the man a warning look. “It is neither backhanded, nor a compliment. Merely a simple fact.” 

“Are you counting yourself one of the fools?” Merrill wondered aloud, and Fenris turned to glare at her even as Hawke began to laugh. “After all, she was talking about all three of us, and you said even fools, so that would imply you’re a fool as well, wouldn’t it? Not that _I_ think you’re a fool, Fenris. Anders might. Oh, I think Anders thinks nearly everyone is. But of all of us, Anders really shouldn’t say such things.” 

The human mage sputtered, and Hawke’s laughter took on a breathless quality. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Merrill blinked overly wide eyes in the man’s direction. “Creators, Anders, I don’t mean any offense. I just mean, well, you really don’t always make very _good_ decisions, do you? You really shouldn’t judge others. I can understand Justice makes that difficult, but really, Anders the man should at least _try_ to be more self-cognizant.” 

As the mage gaped at the elven woman, Fenris found himself pressing his fist to his mouth to hide his amusement. The sheer bafflement, quickly turned to incredulous outrage, was nearly exquisite. 

Hawke seemed to disagree and her laughter was suddenly quiet, her expression morphing into one of trepidation. “Merrill, perhaps now isn’t the best time to-” 

“Oh, I would very much like to hear the _blood_ mage finish her thoughts,” despite the vitriol in that single word, the mage’s voice had taken on an eerie and flat tone. It set off warning bells in Fenris’s mind and a prickle along his spine and brands that warned of magic pulling at the Fade. Abruptly, his mirth evaporated as quickly as morning dew on the relentless dunes of the coast, and his eyes narrowed in on the flicker of veilfire blue that was crackling along the abomination’s fingertips. 

Eyes flicking to Hawke he found her gnawing at her lip, hands dropping towards her daggers. 

“Justice,” Merrill admonished, her voice squeaky but firm. “I’m talking to Anders, remember? Please don’t interrupt.” 

While stubborn, the mage’s expression lacked the immature set to it from earlier that day. Instead there was a stern strength that seemed misplaced. “I am Anders, and I demand you finish.” 

“No,” the witch declined. Fenris made desperate eye contact with Hawke as he reached towards the hilt of his sword, even as the woman frantically shook her head. “Justice is very close to the surface, isn’t he? We can’t speak openly like that if he feels you’re being threatened somehow.” 

“You question my ability to judge, when you are the one who has caved to the lure of forbidden magics-” 

“Alright, let’s just stop a moment, take a breath, and agree to disagree-” 

“Oh Anders, please, I think maybe you and Justice should take a walk or have some tea-” 

“Enough of this,” Fenris muttered, standing cautiously and taking a grounded stance. Hawke made a frantic gesture for him to cease, but he ignored her. “Mage, your control is slipping. Leash your demon at once. Witch... stop talking.” 

“ _Damn_ you to the void and back, Fen-” 

“Fenris! Please, let me-” 

“ _ **I am not a demon!**_ ” 

The spirit’s outraged roar overtook the two women’s voices. Crackling like embers and echoing like thunder, the unnatural dissonance of the two voices intermingled made Fenris’s skin crawl. Gritting his teeth and digging his toes into the sand he bent his knees as the abomination rose, the mage finally overtaken by the outpour of blue fire splitting through his skin. 

It was regrettable. As annoying as the man was, Fenris had no desire to slay a companion, even one as reckless and misguided as the apostate. 

“Justice--Anders--, oh bollocks, please calm down. No one is fighting, this is all just a big overreaction. Everyone just calm down, and- Fenris, I swear, you put that sword down _right this instant_.” 

“Listen to Hawke, Justice.” The blood mage said, her voice more fitted for soothing a child than a fade creature. “No one is attacking you or Anders right now. Just some cross words between friends. See? That’s perfectly normal isn’t it? It’s truly no harm, I promise.” 

“Hawke,” Fenris bit out. “If you have some way to ease the abomination with your charms, do so now, or my hand will be forced.” 

The woman’s glare was murderous. “Fen, you’re not helping, so do us all a favor and be quiet.” 

“ _ **The blood mage lies**_ ,” the demon declared with a finality that shook in Fenris’s bones. “ _ **The singing elf wills bloodshed, and it is unjust. These lies are unjust. You speak of friendship but your actions bely ignorance and falsehoods. Violence for the sake of violence; pacts made with demons. I will not allow you to harm him.**_ ” 

“No one is harming anyone,” Hawke shrieked. 

Resigning himself to the battle to come, Fenris hefted his sword higher. For a moment, he stared into the swirling blue that he knew disguised light brown eyes, and offered a silent apology to the mage. While neither trustworthy nor particularly likable he had possibly had a kind soul before it had been corrupted. He had been a valuable ally if an unwanted one, and skilled on the battlefield. 

Murdering a misguided man gave him no joy. Once this was over, he would do the honorable thing and at least ensure that the mage received his proper rites. 

A sharp toned wolf whistle cut the air, and four heads turned. 

“A girl really can’t leave you lot unsupervised,” Isabela _tsked_ , holding one of their packs in her grip. Her feet were bare and her hair wrapped in a silken cover for sleep. 

“Bela,” the blood witch said in a wavering voice. “Now really might not be the time.” 

“I think it is, sweetness.” Opening the pack slowly, Fenris realized what she had as she lifted the linen wrapped orb from the satchel. 

“Hey there tall, glowing, and handsome.” The pirate purred, taking calm and measured steps towards the agitated abomination. “How about we all take a moment to breathe so we can parley properly, and I’ll hand over this delicious little orb so you can hold onto it.” 

Though there were no pupils in the blinding vortex that made for the abomination’s eyes, the slight movements of his chin showed his attention was rapt on the lyrium infused sphere. “ _ **That object is made of mineral, not flora or fauna. It is not acceptable for sustenance, thus should not be consumed.**_ ” 

Blinking at the odd sequitur, Fenris glanced away from the creature to see Hawke staring with sudden bewilderment, and the Dalish elf beaming at the spirit with something that looked suspiciously like pride. 

Isabela, to her credit, did not falter in her approach and only smirked broadly. “Too right, tiger. When I say delicious, what I mean is delightful. Now, you like lyrium, don’t you? So here, as our resident _spirit_ and protector, you should hold onto this.” 

The abomination’s head tilted, and an action that would seem curious or interested on any other companion seemed so much more alien and unsettling when combined with his expressionless attention. “ _ **You are... offering me a gift.**_ ” 

Isabela nodded encouragingly. “You got it in one, handsome. Anders mentioned you had some sort of... affinity. Naturally, I can’t think of anyone better who should take it.” 

Closer to the abomination than Fenris thought strictly necessary or safe, the Rivaini woman offered the Seer’s Eye. The fade creature only hesitated a moment before reaching and clasping the heavy mineral artifact to his chest, breath seeming to shudder from his mortal lungs as he held it. 

“ _ **I do not understand why you would offer me a gift of this magnitude.**_ ” The demon rumbled, clutching the object with careful hands. The eerie blue veins which spidered across the polished orbs’ surface seemed to reflect the cracks of veilfire cutting jaggedly across the mage’s knuckles. “ _ **But the song... I thank you.**_ ” 

Brazenly reaching to ruffle the abomination’s feathers, Isabela offered him a cheeky grin. “You enjoy that and take care of it. Now,” she glanced over and catching Fenris’s own eyes, looked pointedly at his sword. Huffing, he swung it back onto his back. “Why don’t you take a moment to get acquainted with your new toy, sweet thing. The mortals will be over here discussing boring things.” 

Her suggestion seemed to fly unneeded, as the demon had already dropped his chin to his chest, humming a strange tune softly under his breath. 

Slipping away on silent bare feet the pirate snagged Merrill by the elbow, then caught Fenris by the shoulder, and dragged the two elves to the further side of camp as Hawke hastened to follow. Once she deemed them close enough to watch but suitably out of earshot, she turned and hissed like an angry cat. 

“What in Maferath’s balls was that?” She demanded, dropping her hands to her hips. “Do you have any idea how many times I nearly _shit_ myself walking that thing over to him? What in the void happened after I went to bed?” 

Scowling, Fenris rolled one shoulder in a shrug. “The mage lost control, just as we knew he would.” 

Resorting to childish tactics, Hawke kicked his shin. “Which he wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t goaded him into it, you ass.” 

Twisting her fingers anxiously, Merrill shook her head. “No, this is my fault. I should have known that Justice was too present to say anything critical, but I did anyway. It put him on the defensive, and it just got worse and worse until it was too late and he took over.” 

Rubbing a hand over her face and smearing her kohl, Isabela sighed. “Just... whatever recipe led to this, just don’t do it again. Andraste’s silken lips, this was nearly a disaster.” Glancing across the camp, she watched with sharp eyes as the abomination continued to stand and hum. Eyebrows furrowing, she looked back to Hawke and Merrill. 

“Why hasn’t he turned back yet? Normally once the trouble is over, glowy buzzkill over there goes back into hiding.” 

Bouncing nervously on her heels, the blood witch bit at her lip before answering. “I think it’s the Eye. The lyrium is what’s had Justice so present all day, and now that he’s so close to it, it may be keeping him anchored.” 

“Shit,” Hawke said, sucking in a hissing breath through her teeth. Isabela echoed the sentiment. 

“And the pirate just gave it to him as a _gift_ ,” Fenris said slowly, eyes rolling up towards the heavens as if to beseech the Maker himself to end the insanity. “So I find it doubtful he will part with it willingly.” 

“Maybe trying to turn this back towards violence isn’t the best answer.” Hawke stated pointedly. 

Surprising perhaps even himself, Fenris took offense to the accusation. “Believe me or not, but I have no desire to harm the mage. But I will do so as a service to both ourselves and him should I have no other choice.” 

“Or,” the blood witch interrupted. “We could simply _ask_ Justice nicely now that he’s calmed down.” 

The two humans and Fenris shared a dubious look. 

“Do you really think that might work, kitten?” 

“I don’t see why not,” she trilled. “Spirits can actually be wonderful conversationalists if you ask them the right questions. And Justice seems to genuinely care about Anders, such as why he got so upset in the first place, so surely he wouldn’t mind releasing control of their body if we give him a good enough reason. Here, let me go ask him.” 

The blood mage turned on her heel, and with an undignified squawk Hawke made a half-hearted attempt to catch her elbow before she could flit off across the camp. Shifting his weight uneasily, Fenris sighed before following, their leader and pirate falling in step with him. 

“Oh Justice,” the elven woman sing-songed, bouncing on her toes as she stopped just out of arm’s reach. “I was just wondering, well, it’s nearly bedtime you see.” The abomination’s head rose from where it had been resting in what seemed to be an unnatural angle, and Fenris suppressed the shudder that wanted to travel the length of his spine. 

“We all had a very long day of killing horribly unjust slavers, and we have to hike back to Kirkwall tomorrow. Would you mind terribly giving Anders control back now so we can all go to bed? Not that I mind your company! Oh, Creators, not at all.” The witch clasped her hands in front of her and beamed pleasantly up at the stoic abomination. “It's just, well, I imagine he must be quite tired, and really, it would be quite difficult to sleep in the tent if you’re glowing like that. You’ll keep poor Fenris and I awake all night.” 

Her babbling was met with a weighted silence as the demon seemed to absorb her words. 

“ _ **You wish for me to withdraw so Anders may sleep.**_ ” The creature surmised, a faint perplexity coloring his emotionless voice. 

Merrill bobbed an eager nod and smiled encouragingly. “That’s right! It’s been quite the day, hasn’t it? He must be tired. Oh, I know I am.” 

“I’m absolutely knackered,” Hawke chimed in, smiling with far too much gum. 

“See?” the elven woman said, jumping on the other woman’s contribution eagerly. “I think everyone could use a good rest right about now. I apologize for all the misunderstanding, truly, but surely your host needs to take care of himself? I know you care about Anders very much, so his wellbeing is very important to you.” 

“ _ **I am aware of Anders physical limitations**_ ,” the creature stated. “ _ **He has many more hours before exhaustion overwhelms him.**_ ” 

The blood mage hesitated and Fenris found himself pursing his lips. 

“Maybe pushing a bedtime on an escaped Circle mage wasn’t the best angle, sweet thing.” Isabela whispered with a gentle nudge. “Any other ideas in that pretty head?” 

The witch fidgeted a moment before squaring her shoulders. While her efforts were utterly foolish, Fenris couldn’t help but admire her strange brand of tenacity. 

“Justice,” she said, her voice less girlish than it had been moments before. “May I speak with Anders? I owe him an apology for hurting his feelings before. It would be unjust of me not to.” 

That seemed to catch the abomination’s attention. Standing tall and proud, the creature called Justice seemed to take the space the mage’s mortal form occupied and amplify it, making him seem larger and stronger, and tower over the slight elf. Yet somehow, where he radiated power that had no place in the realm of men, for the first time it did not seem overtly malevolent. 

“ _ **You would apologize for words you spoke with honesty.**_ ” He questioned. “ _ **Why?**_ ” 

“Because even if I say something that feels unkind, it is not meant in an unkind manner.” The elf explained gently. “I don’t apologize for what I said, because it was true. It isn’t fair for him to point out everyone’s flaws when he has so many of his own. But I _am_ sorry that it hurt him for me to say so in front of everyone. I’d never want to hurt someone’s feelings! Especially by humiliating them in front of their friends. If you wouldn’t mind terribly so, may I speak with him?” 

With a pregnant pause the fade creature seemed to weigh her words. 

“ _ **You speak truthfully and fairly.**_ ” He finally declared. “ _ **I agree to your request. However, before I withdraw, I will caution you.**_ ” Justice’s stare was stifling, unblinking, and Fenris found himself grateful to not be the one bearing the brunt of it. “ _ **Beware the whispers of Audacity, blood mage. Pride is an insidious and manipulative master who is not easily outwitted, and stalwart in their pursuit. Tread carefully. You have already been marked as his prey.**_ ” 

“Oh!” The witch exclaimed softly. “Oh, well, that’s... yes. Thank you for that Justice. Goodnight to you.” 

Abruptly as it had first appeared, the blue glow receded, and the mage staggered. 

“Merrill,” Hawke said in a halting whisper. “What did-” 

“Oh bollocks,” the mage gaped, blinking at them dazedly. He seemed to realize all at once that they were far from the campfire, that he was surrounded, and inexplicably holding the Seer’s Eye to his chest. Blinking down at the crystalline sphere and then at each companion in turn, his cheeks flared. 

“What happened? Did Isabela get me drunk again?” 

“Not at all!” Merrill said cheerily, breezing past Hawke’s unfinished question. “Justice came out to have a walk-about. He's actually quite sweet, you know. Stern, I suppose. But sweet once he’s not all angry and vengeful.” 

Immediately, the flush was washed from the mage’s stark cheekbones, and he blanched. 

“Oh maker, he didn’t, I mean, I didn’t-” 

“Just a misunderstanding, sweet thing,” Isabela shushed, swanning forward to plant a kiss to the man’s stubbled jaw. “He got protective, Fenris got broody, Hawke did that _adorable_ squeaky voice she does when she’s nervous, and I gave that silly Rivaini knick-knack to him as a friendship gift. You really didn’t miss much.” 

“And then Merrill charmed him into going back to where he lives in your head.” Hawke chimed in, back to her buoyant, if perhaps not exhausted, self. 

“Speaking of which, I promised Justice something. Come along Anders, let’s have a quick little chat, just you and I.” The blood mage smiled as she clutched at the mage’s elbow. 

“We do?” He questioned, looking no less frazzled than before. “I don’t- what-” 

“Just go with her, mage.” Fenris said. “These antics have prolonged our evening long enough. I will be in the tent. Try not to wake me when you return.” 

Pursing his thin lips, the human dug in his heels against Merrill’s gentle tugs and glanced furtively at each elf before staring back towards the campfire. “I could take a different tent tonight. If you’d prefer. Or, I suppose, you two could share with Hawke and Bela.” 

“The only one I’m sharing with tonight is me, myself, and I.” The pirate said with a wink. “I’ve earned a nice long interrupted sleep. No elbows, no kicks, no dwarves snoring the roof down over my head.” 

Hawke and Merrill both seemed to be of a similar mind, but their glances landed on Fenris. With a start he realized they were deferring to his preference and allowing him to decide, for himself, whether he was comfortable with the abomination laying his bedroll beside his own that evening. 

For a moment he entertained the idea of saying no. He could easily force the mage into Hawke’s tent, or to even sleep out under the stars by the fire like a hound. The idea tickled at a vindictive part of him. A bitter one which would be gratified to see the mage forced from the safety and companionship of their tents. 

But the man did not look haughty, or proud, or anything a spirit bound Magister would have. He looked ashamed. The glimmer of fear in his eyes when he’d realized his demon had run rampant had been genuine, and he was willing to place their comfort over his own. 

The mage was a proud man. Fenris knew what kind of humility it took to set such pride aside. 

“There is no need,” he said instead, and ignored the beaming grins the blood mage and Hawke shone on him in equal measure. “Talk to the witch. Then to bed with both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to visit me on tumblr at statueofsirens.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the first chapter, this one makes references and allusions to past/possible sexual abuse, so please tread with caution.

The next time Hawke called on him, Fenris found that the witch wasn’t joining them on the trek to Sundermount.

It was the logical choice. The blood mage was an outcast from her people and her relationships amongst the Dalish were fraught and uncomfortable. Even with the Dalish clan’s inimical reception to outsiders they were more likely to draw hostility with the witch’s presence than to have her act as an emissary. Travel would pass more quickly without her clumsy stumbling, or her breathless rambling, or her guileless smile and large green eyes. 

It was infallibly logical. 

Yet he was discomforted by her absence. 

That discomfort troubled him more than the missing witch. 

It was a senseless feeling. One which lacked explanation or cause, and sat heavy and uncomfortable in his gut like a leaded weight. After all, he should not care if she joined them. If he were to feel anything at all, it should surely be relief. All sense reasoned that the blood mage was a nuisance despite her best intentions, and dangerous. Without her they were free from the dangers of a naive maleficar, and he should enjoy his freedom from her. 

For several hours he pondered the disturbing feeling and tried to make sense of it. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for his silence to draw attention. Hawke steadily slowed her pace until she was walking in time with him, and from under his hair, he arched a questioning brow in her direction. If he was lucky, it would be short and sweet. 

“What’s got you brooding, now?” She asked. 

_Mother hen_ he thought with exasperated fondness. 

Stifling a snort, he picked his steps carefully over a slew of loose shale stones. “I am not brooding. I am merely thinking.” 

“With that scowl?” The woman sounded unconvinced, and he attempted to soften his jaw muscles from the habitual clenching. “Nice try, what’s on your mind?” 

“I was simply wondering where the witch was.” He admitted with a non-committal shrug. Better to get ahead of the problem, than dwell on it. “She is, after all, one of your favored companions.” 

“I resent that,” Hawke said, but her eyes glinted brightly. “I love all of you equally. You’d dare suggest that I pick favorites? What kind of mother would I be?” 

Despite himself, Fenris couldn’t suppress the amused twitch of his own lips. “You’re hardly a mother in any sense, let alone ours. And you are deflecting.” 

“It’s important to parry. Now, you’re not one to worry after Merrill. What’s she done to irritate you this time? Frolic too loudly? Eat the last cheese pie?” 

“Nothing at all,” he scoffed. “It is, as I’ve noticed, rare for her to not join you.” 

“Fen,” Hawke sighed. His ears twitched in anticipation at the diminutive, and her reproachful tone. “You know she doesn’t like coming up here unless she has to.” 

Of course, he knew. Just as they all did. But on many occasions it had not stopped the witch from bumbling back to the camp at Hawke’s side, always to fidget nervously under her former Keeper’s sharp eyes, or shrink from the barbed words of her clansmen. “And yet she has in the past.” 

“And _yet_ I’m not going to make her do anything she doesn’t want to.” Turning to him Hawke’s gaze turned shrewd. “And not that it’s any business of yours, but she was busy.” 

Doubtless with what. Her demonic mirror was, to his knowledge, still a fixture of pride within her hovel. He briefly considered voicing that concern if only to bait Hawke into acknowledging the danger. The desire passed quickly, however. Hawke was, as well as their other rogues, strangely protective of the blood mage despite her dangerous ventures. 

“With what?" He said instead, keeping his tone neutral and suitably sardonic. “Getting lost in the market for the hundredth time, despite it being steps from her door?” 

Hawke chuffed. “I’ll have you know she’s gotten much better at getting around,” she said with a pleased grin. “She hasn’t wandered into any strange houses in well over a month.” 

Fenris grimaced and rolled his eyes. The witch’s propensity for getting herself in and out of strange situations was frankly alarming. “How reassuring.” 

“You jest, serah smartass, but I call that improvement.” 

He arched a brow. “Indeed. The homes of Kirkwall are safe at last from the meandering exploits of an erstwhile blood mage.” 

“I’ll have you know the last home she walked into hadn’t even noticed until they were serving her a plate at the table.” Despite the absurdity of that statement, the woman seemed inordinately pleased. 

“You are neither inspiring confidence in the witch, nor in the populace at large.” 

“And here you are, a member of that very populace, and I have the utmost confidence in you.” 

Fenris snorted. “Your wit suffers just before lunch,” he baited, smirking at his friend. 

Hawke's answering sniff held only a mockery of displeasure, but her following words inspired unease. “And you’re being a nosy grouch. Can't you go argue with Anders some? Compare him to a magister so he gets all red and beety?” 

Her tone was flippant and her voice louder than he appreciated. He grimaced, and glanced back towards the mage. The man was following them at a steady pace, but his shoulders were hunched, and with bruise dark circles under his eyes. Even to a casual observer it was clear that the mage had either been sleepless for some time, or that something was weighing heavily on his mind. “I’m concerned by your eagerness to incite in-fighting.” Fenris said, turning his attention away from the man and speaking lowly. Despite Hawke’s eagerness to live out some nostalgic fantasy of childhood bickering, his own memory bred caution. “Particularly with what happened on the coast.” 

She flapped her hand dismissively. “A woman has to make do with what entertainment she can,” she explained, and for such insensate words, they lacked malice. Bumping his shoulder and leaning close, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “ _Try_ to be gentle, but go rile him up a bit. He’s been especially peaky the last few days. He needs to live a little.” 

He arched a brow. “And if his passenger takes offense?” 

Hawke's smile held no less luster, but seemed tired. “Merrill said that was a lyrium inspired fluke. I haven’t seen a crackle of blue since then.” 

“You’ve been keeping an eye on him?” He whispered, pleased with her foresight. 

She hummed. “Varric has eyes all over,” she reminded him. “And I may have made a few excuses to check in. He's been tired, quite a bit so, but no rumors have come through regarding glowing men,” she paused and arched a brow significantly. “Except for one who may or may not have intimidated a Hightown baker.” 

His ears heated, but he kept his attention on the path ahead of him. “A corrupt merchant who thought he could belittle and rob elves by charging extravagant prices for bread.” 

Hawke’s snort was loud and inelegant. “I heard it was apple tartlets.” 

The burning in his ears traveled to his cheeks. “He'd boasted using authentic cinnamon,” he groused begrudgingly. His lip curled. “But he didn’t want to waste quality merchandise on an elf.” 

“Bastard,” Hawke agreed with a sudden clap to his back. Fenris struggled to not jerk away from her friendly touch. “How were the tartlets?” 

“Delicious.” He deadpanned. 

Her laugh was sudden, loud, and feminine in a way that seemed at odds with her rough exterior. With a playful smile and push of her armored shoulder, she tried to herd him towards the mage. “Maybe lead with that. I'm sure he’ll appreciate the, ah, _justice_ of it.” 

Groaning, he submitted to her whims even as he damned her for them. 

*****

The bags under the abomination’s eyes were worse than he’d first thought.

From afar he’d looked tired and drawn. Standing close enough he could reach and touch, the man looked nearly ill. The paleness of his skin seemed to contrast the purple bruising, and his habitual scruff was patchy and uneven. 

He looked wretched and miserable, and it made Fenris pause. 

Despite the lack of subtlety, his approach went unremarked on. The mage continued his steady climb of the mountain trail in silence, only turning his head when a bark of laughter or the call of a bird caught his attention. From the flicker of the man’s eyelashes, however, he knew he was watching him. 

“You look awful,” Fenris remarked once he’d tired of pretending that they weren’t assessing each other. 

The mage’s lips twitched before pulling into a thin line. “And your haircut makes you look like an adolescent boy. There, now we’ve both said something unkind but true.” 

Fenris resisted the urge to toss his bangs from his face, and scowled in return. 

“That was weak, even by your standards.” 

Baiting the mage on his weakness, be it intellectual, moral, or physical, was a sure way to raise the man’s ire. To his consternation, and mild intrigue, it only made the man sigh. 

“I can’t be a pinnacle of wit every moment of every day,” the human said instead. The words held an air of resignation, as if he’d fully expected this turn of events, and was now too apathetic to even combat them. It made Fenris hesitate. An outspoken mage, an angry mage, was someone easily read and understood. A silent and morose one was a mystery. 

“If only you were such on any day,” he said, but what should having been a barbed retort fell flat. Unsure whether he was feeling pitying or merely cautious, he weighed his words more carefully. “If you require rest,” he offered haltingly. “I’m sure Hawke would be accommodating.” 

The mage scoffed. “I’m not slowing anyone down.” 

Gritting his teeth, Fenris stamped down his knee-jerk reaction to walk away. “Did I say that you were?” he sniped out of irritation. “I merely suggest you will be of better service if you are-,” he struggled to think of something both straight-forward and tactful. “Up to par, as they say.” 

For a moment the only answer he received was a bitten sneer. The expression lingered before slowly melting away and leaving the same thin-lipped frown the mage had been wearing since they’d left Kirkwall. “It wouldn’t matter,” the man said, the rigidity in his shoulders slumping away. “My body is rested, it’s my mind which is tired.” 

Grunting his acknowledgement, Fenris considered that. His stomach twisted and churned in ways he could not quantify. His unease with the witch’s absence seemed to meld with the discomfort of watching a fanatic man stand dull and apathetic. It left a restless ache he longed to rip away, but couldn’t help but huddle around as he tried to make sense of it. 

“Have you finally seen the fruitlessness of your cause?” He asked, his words carefully crafted to fall both flat and wry. An invitation for banter, not war. 

The abomination made a _pfft_ ing sound and shook his head. “Never,” and there was a sliver of his missing conviction in the word. “What I have seen is that as much as I enjoy healing, I find myself wishing to never look between a woman’s legs again.” 

Coming to an abrupt stop, Fenris stared at the man in confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

The human rolled his eyes. “It’s been nearly a year since Summersday, elf.” 

It was a nonsensical statement. Counting in his head Fenris found that, yes, they were just a couple months from the first days of summer, but failed to see what that pertained to. “You’re speaking as if that has some point to it.” 

“Summersday is when all the Chantry loving boys and girls who are coming of age start getting married off,” the man explained, his voice taking on an annoying and patronizing lilt. “So, all these repressed, inexperienced, and overenthusiastic younglings go get married, and then they enjoy the spoils of married life.” 

“And a year later?” Fenris drawled, still not seeing how this pertained to the mage’s exhaustion, or sudden aversion. 

With a tired smirk, the mage raised a thin brow at him. “And a year later. Babies, elf. Surely you know how they’re made.” 

Suddenly seeing the correlation, he flushed and turned his head to scowl down the rocky path. “Indeed,” he grunted, and grit his teeth at the soft chuff of laughter hidden poorly under the mage’s breath. “I imagine Kirkwall has its share of midwives, however. I fail to see why this would be such an... active, time for you.” 

Another sigh. “The first few years weren’t so hectic,” the mage admitted. He sounded wistful for that time. “Just the refugees, and mostly only the difficult cases. Babies being born breach, mothers who had been sickly or hungry too long, you know. But once the clinic got settled, and more rumors about it spread, well.” 

“And that changed,” Fenris surmised. Glancing back, he indulged his curiosity. “Just how many babes have you caught these past few weeks?” 

The mage’s expression was haunted. “ _Dozens_.” 

He stared and frowned at the man. “You exaggerate,” he accused. 

The human shook his head, looking for all the world like he’d wished the accusation were true. “No,” he said morosely. “It started small. Just a few of the Darktown mothers. But then I started seeing women from Lowtown. A few of the elven girls from the Alienage.” He chewed at his lip and sighed. “I started keeping records. Which babe was born what day and to what mother. Last count I had was twenty-six individual children from nineteen pregnancies.” He paused and shuddered. “Multiples.” 

Somehow, he managed to infuse the word with as much despair and disgust as was usually reserved for _darkspawn_. 

“Multiples,” Fenris said slowly, intrigue and trepidation swelling in equal measure. “Twins, you mean?” 

“Twins,” the mage agreed with a shrug. “And for one poor woman, triplets. My first set, actually. I was rather proud afterwards. It's quite rare for the third to survive a long birthing, you know. Although, how the poor dear will feed them all, the Maker only knows.” 

With hesitation, Fenris nodded his acceptance. “That must have been... difficult,” he said, stumbling over the careful words. “As a man, I can only hazard to guess at the mother’s struggle during such a process.” 

The abomination hummed as he walked, seeming lighter than he had minutes before. The curious ache Fenris carried in his gut gave a warm lurch at the human’s easing tension. “Lengthy, and a bit harrying, but not the worst. I haven’t even told you about the twin that got stuck.” 

Too proud to resort to gaping, Fenris felt a shudder of horror at the casually spoken words. “How does a babe get stuck?” He asked, even as he regretted the words. 

With a snort, the mage turned keen eyes on him. The ease was still there, but accompanying it was a spark of mischief. “One was bigger than the other,” he explained casually. “He got his head stuck in the cervix. This poor woman,” he paused, poorly stifling his amusement. “I shouldn’t laugh, but I very much doubt when she came to me to have her babies delivered that she expected that I’d end up wrist deep inside her.” 

Revulsion shuddered down Fenris’s spine, and he stared at the mage aghast. “Why would you do that?” he asked, now cursed with the mental image of a faceless woman on her back, heaving through painful labor, and the mage offering empty placations while pushing- 

He cut the thought off. It was too distressing. 

Turning, the mage had the audacity to look humored. “What do you mean? She needed a hand,” and he _laughed_. “And I leant her one.” 

Repulsion took root, and Fenris’s gut twisted. “You had no choice but to violate that woman, while she was helpless to stop you?” 

The abomination gaped at him. “Violate? Have you lost your senses? She had a skull lodged in her cervix! What would you have had me do, shake the boy loose?” 

Fenris shook his head, the ache in his gut a forgotten and cooling ember. There was a tickle of warning at the base of his skull, something that told him to stop and heed the healer's words, but his imagination ran from him and into the darkest of corners. “Why should I be surprised? You flout your ability as a mage and a healer, yet you chose and delight in having done something so-” 

“Excuse me,” the mage hissed, his drawn face flushed with sudden rage. 

The tickle turned into a frenzied drum, but he brushed it away. “A mage preying on the weak to act out his sick desires. The Imperium would be proud.” 

That seemed to throw the mage off balance. Perhaps even literally, as he stumbled back as though Fenris had physically pushed him. “How _dare_ you insult me by accusing me of being some sort of sadist.” He seethed. “The baby was _stuck_ you idiot. If she had kept pushing, he could have suffocated, and she could have died of blood loss. Magic, while useful, couldn’t help an obstructed birth. I had to manually reach in and help the poor boy, and when he was able to crown properly, nature took its course.” 

Sensible. It all sounded very sensible, and Fenris was no healer, so it should stand that he takes a professional explanation as just that; _professional_. 

But disgust and pride were a heady combination, and in his mind’s eye he could see the woman on her back, and the mage between her legs. He could hear the ghost of Danarius whispering him promises that something was worth the pain, the only way, just to trust in his master. The grotesquerie stung his tongue, and he found himself spitting words he already regretted. “Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” he sneered, and with a pointed pause. “Except you don’t seem to be, do you?” 

The mage looked gob smacked. Flushed red and trembling, it was not just anger, but genuine _hurt_. In the nebulous stillness Fenris wished he could carve those words out of the air and hide them back in his lungs, because it was cruel, pointlessly so. Just because he distrusted, just because this was something he was ignorant of, it did not give him the excuse to spit venom and make a man innocent of such a crime into a monster. 

Swallowing thickly, he thought of a dozen ways to apologize but none made it to his lips. Instead he could only stand and watch as the mage spun from him and stomped up the path. 

*****

Later, after Hawke had spoken to the Keeper and offended the Craftmaster, she dragged Fenris away from the encampment and to a nearby alcove of stone ruins.

“What the _fuck_ ,” she snapped, looking frantic. “Did you say to Anders?” 

“Was it not your intention,” he replied dully, still stewing in his own shame and regret. “That I rile him for you?” 

Her fist slammed into his chest hard enough to wind him, and he staggered. Rough housing and sparring were common amongst them, but it was the first time he had ever seen his friend angry enough to make a point with her fists. He felt a hot flash of defensive anger and his fingers curled in his gauntlets before he ground his teeth and pushed it away. 

He had already ruined something incredibly fragile today. He did not need to sabotage any more of his relationships. 

“I asked you to rile him, not eviscerate him.” She spat, and under her anger was bald worry. For them both he would wager, but for the abomination in particular. He was a notoriously erratic man, and if he were to spiral off into some sort of decline, there would be no doubt in what the catalyst had been. “If I hadn’t known better, at least three times today I would have worried he was about to commit some sort of self-immolation suicide just to get off this damned mountain. What did you do?” 

Swallowing, Fenris raised one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “I spoke carelessly,” he admitted. 

Hands on her hips, Hawke studied him carefully. “I speak carelessly,” she said, “Isabela speaks carelessly. There’s a difference between poking at someone’s insecurities or feelings, and taking a maul to them. Whatever you said, it crossed some sort of line, and I need to know what it was.” 

This was a conversation he had no interest in. All afternoon he had been forced to remain alert for danger while watching the mage from across the party, all too aware that every clench of the man’s jaw or slouch of his shoulders was his fault. He'd had to repeat the damned conversation in his head a hundred times, and try to make sense of why something as innocuous as a birthing anecdote had disturbed him so, or why he had imagined cruelty where there was none. 

Maker help him. This was the second time he had looked at the man and seen a predator, yet had been given no reason to draw that conclusion. 

His silence made Hawke pause, and she shifted her weight restlessly. “Did he do something?” she asked, stepping hesitantly away from her anger. “If he said something to provoke you, you can tell me.” 

“No, but that is between the mage and I,” he said, not wanting to bare the bones of his paranoia, or admit to his baseless accusations. 

“Oh, fuck you.” Hawke huffed, but as acerbic as she sounded, she was just as exasperated. “If it’s something you can fix, then fix it. If you can’t,” she worried at her lip and trailed into silence. Trepidation took root in Fenris’s chest, and he waited with shortened breath. 

“This is my fault,” she finally said, softly, with an air of failure. “I never should have told you to talk to him. I should have stopped bringing the two of you out together at all a long time ago.” 

Much like with the witch, what should have been relief turned on him, and became something confusing and nameless. 

“That is not true, nor necessary,” he attempted to soothe, to limited success. “The only one at fault in this is myself. I spoke... poorly. In this, the mage is right to be angry.” 

Hawke’s lips twisted. “He’s not just angry,” she said with a glance back towards the Dalish camp. “He’s mortified. I haven’t seen this before.” When she turned to him, her expression was determined and beseeching. “Just tell me, Fen, what did you say to him?” 

In a rare expression of cowardice, Fenris found he could not look his friend in the eye. Instead, he looked to his own feet, the grey stones of the mountain, and out towards the rocky terrain. “I-,” he hesitated. Swallowing, he gathered his courage, and his sense of honor. “I accused him of taking advantage. Of a patient.” 

He could hear the soft sound of her swallowing before she spoke. “In what capacity?” 

Grimacing, he kept his gaze fixed far away. “Physically.” 

Silence fell between them. 

Then, the second punch caught his cheek. 

“What the fuck,” Hawke breathed, gaping, her arm drawn to land another blow. “What the _fuck_. Fenris, have you lost your mind? Why would you say such a thing? Oh Maker, no wonder he’s been in such a mood. _Fenris_.” 

Catching her fist before it could land a third time, he twisted her arm down and away. Pain pulsed against his cheekbone, but even now, in this, Hawke had pulled her strength. “Kaffas, I know,” he barked. “It was uncouth and cruel of me.” 

“He gives them everything,” Hawke said, her shoulders rising and falling under the swells of her anger. “His food, his coin, his time, his magic. He gives them everything and you turned around and called him a _rapist_?” She jerked her fist from his hold and stepped away from him. “He martyrs himself every day for those people, and you have the gall to call him some sort of sick opportunist?” 

“The Magisters of Tevinter are not above such opportunities,” he murmured, but despite the truth in it, it was a poor defense. His friend was correct; the mage was a martyr, not a tyrant. 

“I doubt the Magisters also heal the sick and downtrodden to no personal gain,” she spit. Dragging her hand over her face, Hawke paced restlessly. “You’ll share a tent with Varric tonight,” she muttered. “And I’ll share with Anders. When we get back to Kirkwall, I’ll talk to Aveline, and send a letter to Sebastian. Perhaps if we just organize things carefully, we can avoid the two of you-” 

“Hawke,” he insisted. “That is not necessary. I will speak to him and apologize.” 

The woman whirled and pointed an armored finger at him. “No. The best way to keep this from escalating is to just keep you two apart. I should have been doing that in the first place, but I was foolish, and thought you could pull your heads from your asses and _maybe_ become friends.” 

“ _Hawke_ ,” he stressed, meeting the woman’s eye. “I am my own man and you cannot command me. I will speak to the mage. If he lashes out, or is unreasonable, then I’ll at least know that I’ve done the honorable thing. Then you may make your plans.” 

Her frantic energy waned, and her shoulders slumped. “You’re right,” she agreed, though it was with obvious reluctance. “Just in case it gets dicey just.... please, don’t let it get out of control. I don’t want to lose either of you, and certainly not to each other.” 

“If it comes to violence,” he agreed carefully. “Then I will aim to subdue, not kill.” 

Nodding, the woman’s lip wobbled as she reached and clasped his arm. “I’m sorry I punched you,” she said. 

Shaking his head, he gave her a smirk even as he slid cautiously from her touch. “Don’t be,” he replied. “If any of you were so careless, I would gladly hit you.” 

“Even if we were careless towards Anders?” She asked doubtfully. 

“In this?” He swallowed. “Yes.” 

*****

Even with Hawke’s support, the most difficult aspect to apologizing was finding a way to get the mage alone. With their small camp made near a set of crumbling ruins down the road from the Dalish, the man simply sat and lingered in a hostile and maudlin silence.

Varric responded by having one of his rare quiet evenings. He sat near the mage in amicable silence, steadily whittling away at a piece of wood. Every so often he would whistle a tune, or clear his throat, but always return to the methodical scraping of his knife without spinning some tall tale. 

Never let it be said that the dwarf couldn’t read a room. 

Fenris was forced to sit and bide his time. He ate his meal of salted meat and barley stew, indulged in a share of the dwarf’s wine skein, and stared at the fire trying to make sense of how he could lure the mage away without it being obvious. The longer he sat the more useless it seemed, and he grew more certain that he would be sharing a tent with the dwarf that evening. 

It felt damning. As though if the night passed before he could speak to the man, there would be no recovery from this error. 

Hawke, the busy body she was, intervened. 

“Anders, mind washing the pots down at the creek?” She asked, with a false and strained cheer. 

Being addressed directly roused the mage from his fugue, and he blinked at the woman slowly. “Won’t the Dalish mind if I wander too close?” 

The human woman flapped her hand. “Keeper Marethari assured me the hunters would leave us be as long as we didn’t stay within their camp. We have free access to the creek as long as we don’t do anything disrespectful within their borders.” 

Sighing, the mage nodded his acquiesce and stood to gather the cookware. When his back turned to the fire, and his form disappeared into the shadowed hills, both Hawke and Varric spun their heads to stare at Fenris in cool expectation. Standing, he resisted his inclination to hunch himself smaller under their attentive eyes, and moved to follow. 

“Broody?” Varric murmured to him as he passed, the dwarf’s warm voice flinty with ire. “Don’t fuck it up.” 

With a grimace he nodded, and followed the mage’s tracks down to the water. 

*****

When he approached the creek, the mage was crouched low by the shallow water and staring out into the ink dark night.

“If you’ve come to ensure I haven’t nipped off to accost some young Dalish girl, I assure you, I’m quite alone.” Though acerbic, there was a dullness to the man’s tone that plucked an uneasy chord, and Fenris frowned down at his toes. 

“I did not come to act as a guard or chaperone.” 

The mage gave a bitter chuff. “How generous of you,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to preach to me in all the ways I’m a threat to society instead? I’ll admit, that I’m little more than a monstrous rapist was a new one, but I’m sure you have a few more accusations saved up for a special occasion. How about cannibalism? You haven’t thrown that one at me yet. Might as well get it over with now.” 

Shifting his weight, Fenris was cautious to keep his tone light. “Given the controversy over elves and humans as being different species, there’s a debate within certain academic circles of Tevinter that eating elves does not qualify as cannibalism.” 

That struck the mage silent, and his eyes narrowed. “That is,” he said slowly, as if contemplating. “Horrific and disgusting.” 

Grunting his agreement, Fenris carefully navigated closer. “Indeed. Though to my knowledge, I have known of no magister to indulge in the practice.” 

“I see,” the mage said. “Well, I appreciate the nightmare fuel none the less.” 

Uncertain silence reigned, and with a sense of awkwardness, Fenris forced himself to crouch a few feet from the mage. The creek was shallow and the water quiet, but frogs sang nearby, and the wind rustled the tall grass. “Moving on,” he said haltingly, clearing his throat of his discomfort. “I wish to speak with you about... earlier.” 

The human’s dull expression turned stony. “I’d rather leave those bones to lie, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Fenris shook his head. “I cannot.” 

Throwing the half-washed cookpot to the ground, the mage glared at him. “I’m willing to make this alliance work for Hawke, but I will not allow you to-” 

“I came to apologize,” he interrupted. 

Stopping mid-tirade, the mage’s brows furrowed. 

Encouraged, Fenris pushed forward. “You are a healer and you care for your patients,” he said, wading through his uneasy thoughts with prudent care. “You would never hurt one, or take any advantage over one. I’m sorry.” 

“Anyone,” the mage corrected, his tone sharp and warning. “I would never take advantage of _anyone_ , elf.” 

He appeared to hesitate a hair too long, and the mage tossed his head with a sound of disgust. “Of course,” he said bitterly. “I’m only as honorable as my role as a healer. After that, I’m just some lecherous cretin.” 

Frustration began to rise, but determined, Fenris shoved the feeling down. “No, you’re an honorable man.” The words felt odd in his mouth, stilted and uneven, but he persevered. “Annoying, crude, misguided and naïve, but honorable. You are no lecher, and I apologize.” 

The mage sucked in a sharp breath as if to contest him further, but instead he released the air slowly. Gathering himself, Fenris thought. A glimmer of respect and something warm and pleased settled comfortably in his belly, as he realized the mage was being reasonable. If he had been fitful and vengeful in this, this possibly alone, Fenris would have understood. 

But instead he was listening. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. 

“Perhaps,” the human said slowly, as if unsure of his words. “You could explain to me why you said such a thing in the first place. My mind has been spinning all day, but I can’t make heads or tails of it.” 

Uncomfortable and chagrined, Fenris studied the ground. “It is,” he hesitated. “Difficult.” 

“Then try,” the mage said, a challenge in his voice. “While the apology is appreciated, you owe me an explanation.” 

It was a fair demand, and Fenris suppressed a grimace. “There are layers,” he said. “Some of which confuse even I.” 

The mage made a hemming sound, and encouraged to take his time, Fenris pieced his thoughts together. “Do you recall the night that the rogues got you drunk?” He asked. When the mage nodded, he gripped his knees. “That night while you were sleeping, you crawled onto the witch.” 

A choking sound caught in the man’s throat, and he gasped roughly. “What?” 

“You did not hurt her,” Fenris amended quickly. “Nor behave... inappropriately. Instead you seemed just starved for affection, and were attempting to hold her. But for a moment I believed that you were attacking her. And I was unsurprised.” 

The man’s jaw worked as if he had dozens of things he wished to say, but the words did not come. Instead he swallowed, his jaw tight, before he spoke. “Why?” 

Shrugging, Fenris picked at his gauntlets. “You are a mage, a human, a man. Those attributes together did not make it seem unlikely that you would attempt to use an elven woman so.” 

“And my patient?” He questioned, his voice level but strained. 

Fenris hesitated as he considered his words. “I am unsure,” he admitted. “I felt... disgusted. You were laughing. The visual was distressing. I imagined all the ways a magister might torment a person under the guise of medicine, or research, or mere entertainment. Invasive acts as an exercise of power are not,” his throat clicked as he swallowed. “They are not uncommon.” 

Silent for a long moment, the mage looked off into the night and nodded slowly. “I see,” he said, and Fenris wondered what it was he thought he saw. 

With a sigh, the mage scraped a hand over his stubbled jaw. “And now?” he asked, tiredly. “Is this something that will continue to haunt us? This idea that at any moment I will assault someone?” 

Grateful that human eyes would be too weak to see his flush of shame, Fenris shook his head. “I cannot promise that dark thoughts will not appear,” he admitted, but there was an apology in his tone. “I can only promise to be strong enough to not accuse an innocent man of the crimes of others.” 

“Well,” he said. “I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” 

Nodding his agreement Fenris lapsed into silence. While peaceful at the water’s edge, the tension still lingered, and it made his teeth clench. 

“I will leave you to your cleaning,” he offered, feeling awkward and off-footed. “Unless you would prefer assistance.” 

With a hand-wave, the mage remained in his crouch. “I can wash a few pans,” he insisted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’ll be back to camp soon. Go assure Hawke and Varric that we haven’t killed one another.” 

Standing, Fenris grunted his agreement and started towards the trail. 

“Fenris?” The mage called; his voice low. “I don’t want to spark another argument, but. Perhaps you should consider that Tevinter isn’t the only place where those in power exercise it in invasive ways.” 

An icy trickle slid down his spine, and he offered his silent acquiesce. 

*****

Later, as he lay in his bedroll, his thoughts returned to the witch.

Awake and plagued by thoughts of Danarius, the dark corners of Kirkwall, and emblems of flaming swords, Fenris wondered if she was tucked safely into her hovel or wandering the gardens of Hightown stealing roses. 

The ache from earlier that day blossomed in his gut, and he frowned as he poked at it with his mind. 

He wondered how she would have felt about what had transpired that day. If she would have been quick to defend the mage had she heard the accusations herself, or been quiet and reproachful in her disappointment. He wondered if it would have been possible to see her angry, something so rare, but had always left him discomforted when her eyes flashed with hot anger. 

The mage had returned and was snoring softly from his side of the small tent. Turning, he considered the silhouette of the man, his long nose standing proudly from his profile, and the ache grew. 

Curious, he let himself imagine the emerald gleam of the blood witch’s eyes in the sunlight, or the whiskey glow of the abomination’s by a fireside. 

The ache turned into a tremble, and he cleared his own throat as he pushed the odd thoughts away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are aspects here that to some readers might seem like a leap. However, trauma thinking is not always rational, and sometimes triggering emotions like fear/disgust will carry you far away from rational thought. Fenris is constantly working on processing his trauma, and is still learning what his triggers are. In this case, one of the keystone issues standing between him and Anders is that Anders shares too many characteristics with his abuser. Coming to separate the two men from each other is a hurdle he has to make.
> 
> Also Fenris in the chapter: oh no feelings??? what are those???


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very, very late and also has excessive amounts of literal cheese.

Two days after the fitful experience on the mountain, Fenris met with Varric at the Hanged Man.

The disreputable dwarf had requested he visit once they returned. Fully expecting to be scrutinized further over his misstep with the mage, he had waited, biding his time until he believed any emotion might no longer play into his judgement. 

Varric was prone to laying his affection in strange places. Firstly, to a crossbow whom he caressed with the intimacy of a lover, and secondly to a strange motley crew of murderers and escapees. His fondness for the abomination was as plain as it was inexplicable. 

So, it was to his own surprise when instead of being led through a series of warnings and admonishments, he was instead asked to sit and was slid a goblet of wine. 

“Okay, let me just get this out of the way and say; don’t kill me.” The dwarf said, holding up wide palms in a sign of peace. 

Stiffly reaching for his wine, Fenris sniffed it and narrowed his eyes at the man over the rim. “What did you do?” 

“What I always do.” Varric said with a crooked smirk. “A little sleight of hand, some well-meaning meddling, and I got my contacts to put me in with the right people. The only difference is that instead of getting the guild off my back or peeping in on the Carta’s affairs, I did you a favor and you might be pretty pissed off about it.” 

With a strong grip on his wine, Fenris’s thoughts whirled as he tried to piece together what the man could mean. Betrayal would never be spoken so casually, but his heart hiccupped all the same. “Varric, what have you done?” 

With a sigh, the dwarf shrugged and picked up a coin purse. Dumping it out on the table with an air of familiarity, he began to sort the pieces. “You know how Hawke has no head for numbers.” 

Grunting his agreement, Fenris eyed him cautiously. “Yes, she is impulsive, and is a terrible financier. This is why she trusts you to keep accounts on the profits from our ventures.” 

“As well as management and distribution,” Varric agreed easily. “See, the problem with folks like Hawke and yourself, is that you’ve got good instincts, but you’re shit with the practicalities of coin. Then you’ve got Blondie and Daisy; sweet as newborn lambs and can’t haggle for shit. Rivaini? Cutthroat, always doublechecks my numbers and tries to slide an extra coin or two off the top.” 

Shifting in his low chair restlessly, Fenris steepled his fingers around the stem of his goblet. “I fail to see what it is you’re admitting to.” 

With a shrug, the dwarf began to stack his sorted coins. “I could go into a long-winded explanation, but I guess you’d prefer it short and sweet. Let me cut to the chase; I’ve been skimming off the top from your earnings. Well, yours, as well as a couple others.” 

Spine straightening, Fenris glared down his nose at the rogue. “You’ve been stealing from us?” Unspoken, and with a degree of hurt, _from me?_ ran through his mind. 

Holding up his hands, Varric shook his head. “Not stealing. None of its been lining my own pockets. Instead, one day I looked around the table at all these beautiful idiots I call my friends and thought to myself: What a shitshow. These poor bastards need some help.” 

Dry mouthed and simmering with anger, he watched the dwarven man with narrow eyes. “And your idea of help was to refuse us our hard-earned coin?” 

“Hard earned coin you lot _waste_ ,” Varric stressed, looking less apologetic and instead firm. “Don’t get me wrong, I love taking coin off you in a game of Wicked Grace, but that win doesn’t taste as sweet when I know certain parties aren’t going to be able to buy firewood, or soap, or _food_ afterwards.” 

Fenris snorted. “I am not as pathetic as the mages. I can support myself.” 

The rogue leaned forward in his low backed chair. “Maybe so, but you think you’re much better Broody? You indulge in your not so secret sweet tooth, splurge on your favorite cuts of meat, then leave the rest to hide under your mattress because you don’t know what to do with it.” 

“That is my choice to make,” he insisted, his anger rising to burn his ears. “And I do not hide gold in my mattress.” 

“It clinks when you sit on it,” Varric said with a smirk. 

“Regardless,” Fenris said, scowling. “My coin and how I use it is of no concern to you.” 

Snorting and taking up his tankard, Varric took a long pull of his ale. “Probably not,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “But call me a worry wart, I just can’t help but think I’d like to see some of my favorite people not be up shit creek without a paddle in a few years. Do you even have plans for after Danarius is dead?” 

Flushing hotly, Fenris slammed his fist on the table. “The most important thing is seeing him dead, not whatever comes after.” 

“Wrong again, elf.” His friend chided. “You’ll be a free man, which means making plans. Having a future. Whether that means hunting slavers with Hawke for the rest of your life, or settling down with some blushing girl and having the broodiest bundle of babies the world’s ever seen, that’ll be up to you. Oh, the adventurer’s lifestyle is romantic on paper, but everybody needs a retirement plan in case they don’t go out in a blaze of glory. That's what I'm trying to do here; make sure you’re prepared for it.” 

Cautiously relaxing back into his seat, Fenris ground his teeth and considered the man’s words. “And just how is you robbing me behind my back going to do that?” 

Varric’s brown eyes glittered with mischief. “I held back a small percentage of some of your pay, and I’ve been setting it aside. I figured once I found the right avenues to pursue, I’d do a little investing on your behalves. A little security, if you will. And just your luck elf, you’re the first one to land one.” 

Curious despite his waning anger, Fenris arched his brow. “What does that mean, exactly?” 

“A little nosing around taught me that a well-known and respected steelsmith was looking for an investor,” the dwarf bragged, counting out several small stacks of gold sovereigns with ink stained fingers. “Congratulations, you’re his patron.” 

“You’ve made contracts in my name?” He hissed in alarm. “You may as well have handed me over to my hunters yourself.” 

“Easy there, Broody.” Varric soothed. “I made the investment in my name, using an account I have on the books for your share. Officially? All me. Unofficially, every copper belongs to you.” 

Cautious as he reigned in the spitting kindling of his anger, Fenris hummed his encouragement around a sip of dark wine. “Go on.” 

“Your investment went into expanding the forge, and to paying an apprentice.” Varric explained, the gold clinking softly as he stacked it. “Willard already had a good reputation, as I said. It just took him too long to fill orders. More heat and more hands means more product, with better reliability.” Leaning back in his chair with a creak, the dwarven man looked smug. “The guard picked up his contract. He's about to be a very busy, very _prosperous_ man.” 

The pointed tips of his gauntlets tapped out a staccato rhythm on his goblet. “And what does that mean for me, exactly?” 

Varric shrugged. “Depends on how well Willard does on his own, but I might give a little push here and there to see that he does. Between this contract and whatever one’s he manages to swing in the future? You won’t be a rich elf, but you’ll be pretty well off.” 

Anxiety spiking, his tapping continued. “But what does that mean?” He asked, willing the dwarf to give him a sense of direction. “Even a small fortune can’t promise a runaway slave a future.” 

With a sigh the dwarf picked up his tankard. “First, it’s not a small fortune _yet_. Second, you’re a free elf in Kirkwall, so you could do a lot with it. Invest some back into another business. Buy property and rent it out. Buy property and _live_ in it.” He received a shrewd look. “Let me pull some strings and get you the deed to that mansion, for example.” 

Fenris scoffed. “I have no need of it.” 

“Maybe not, but you’re less likely to get evicted by the guard if you can say it’s your house.” 

“Aveline has been cautious to keep them from its door.” 

The dwarf grumbled. “You can’t plan to live there forever, elf. If not because it’s disgusting and an eye sore, then at least consider that it’s a waste of real estate. If you owned it outright, we could fix it up and sell it for a king’s ransom.” 

There was a vindictive allure to making money off his former master’s assets that he couldn’t deny, but he shook his head. “Even if we managed to acquire the deed and sunk the coin into it, no noble in this city would purchase property from an elf.” 

Cracking into a raspy chuckle, Varric shook his head. “Broody, think of it this way. Would the stuck-up nobles in Hightown prefer to have an angry elf living next door, or would they fall over each other making bids on the place just to see to it you left?” 

Fenris scowled into his wine. “And so I would have a king’s ransom and no house.” 

Varric shook his head. “Elf, you could _buy_ a house,“ he said with exasperation. “Either in the Alienage, or if you’d prefer the scenery, maybe somewhere out in the country.” The dwarf gave him a lopsided smirk. “You could be a real elf for once and go frolic in the countryside. The air might be good for you.” 

“And perhaps you could be a real dwarf and move into a dark underground chasm.” He suggested with a disgruntled sneer. 

Varric grimaced and shook his head. “Yeah, no. I prefer sunshine, open air, and ale made from grain, thank you very much. None of that dirt distilled pisswater they drink in Orzammar.” 

Fenris arched a brow. “You’ve never been to Orzammar.” 

“It gets imported for guild meetings,” he shrugged with an imperious wave of his hand. “If Corff’s whiskey can put hair on a man’s chest, that swill could make every hair on your head fall right out.” 

“That explains what happened to your beard,” Fenris commented. 

“Cheeky fuck,” Varric said with a laugh. “So. How pissed are you really?” 

“Not as much as I should be,” he said curtly. “That may be foolish of me. I must say though, if you had asked, perhaps I would have agreed to it readily. Instead, you went behind my back and lied to me. I’d warn you to not do so again.” 

“You were the wildcard in this whole scheme,” the rogue admitted with a shake of his head. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky you didn’t start glowing or stick your fist in my chest.” 

“Perhaps I would have been after my missing gold rather than your heart.” 

Varric chuckled. “I’ve hid coin in a lot of places, elf.” He said as he lifted his mug. “But I’ll leave the body cavities to the smugglers.” 

“A likely wise decision,” Fenris agreed wryly. “How long until I see this small fortune you claim to have made me?” 

With a tut, Varric pushed two of the coin stacks across the table. “Good business sense means knowing you have to have patience. Call this here an advance and an apology. When the rest starts to trickle in? I’ll keep you in the loop.” 

“You’d be wise to keep to your word,” he cautioned as he accepted the glinting gold coins. Holding one between forefinger and thumb he tried to imagine a worthwhile use for the funds to come, only for his imagination to stutter uselessly. Small pleasures he could idly see, but a home, a plan, a future where he was settled and his battles at an end were an asinine and impossible fantasy. 

It made something painful and hopeless lurch in his chest, and he stamped it down as he gripped the sovereign in his fist. 

“Why even bother with this?” He asked, unable to keep the question from his tongue. “You’ve made your case for myself, but you suggested you did this for the mages as well. What home and future could you hope to buy two apostates in Kirkwall?” 

Leaning back with a soft grunt, Varric rolled one heavy shoulder in a shrug. “Daisy could have better than she has,” he said simply. Despite his dry humor and flippancy, there was no hiding his easy affection for the witch. “And Blondie’s is less a nest egg, and more for paying off the dozen or so merc’s I’ll have to hire if the Templars ever pick him up.” 

“You’d go for him.” He wasn’t sure if his intention was a statement or an admonishment. 

“They’d kill him.” Varric said, his brown eyes sharp in stark contrast to his genial smirk. “Even if Hawke wouldn’t take the Gallows apart brick by brick to get him, I wouldn’t let Blondie hang.” 

It was tempting to prompt the man’s ire by pointing out Hawke had not stormed the Gallows even for her own sister, but it would have been juvenile and needless. Bethany, for all her years as an apostate, was a pretty girl who knew how to keep her head down. She would do well in a Circle of Magi as long as she minded her keepers. 

The abomination was a wanted man, as well as possessed. If he was not killed immediately, then he would surely be made an example of. 

Strange how a thought that would have once brought him grim acceptance only pulled on his unease instead. 

“Indeed,” he said, his tongue and palate dry as he reached for his goblet to drain it. “You have a strange taste in friends, you know. Perhaps if you limited yourself to drinking with merchants and barkeepers you wouldn’t have to involve yourself as much.” 

Snorting and shaking his head, the dwarf’s eyes glinted. “But what stories would be found in that, Broody?” 

*****

Out in the market, Fenris’s mind still stuttered and fixated on the revelation that his future lay waiting and mysterious.

Varric said such things candidly, but they were no easy concept. Was he the sort of man who would lay down his sword when old age came for him, or would he be little more than a mercenary until his last battle fell? As idle fantasy he tried to imagine something else. Anything, be it wood-working or the merchant’s trade, but each possible profession seemed more ludicrous than the next. Golden years did not come to men of his kind. 

He had been trained, sculpted, and created to act as a weapon. To deny his nature was fruitless. 

A sword could not lay itself down. It could only be carried until it shattered. 

Eager to shake off his troubled thoughts, he turned his attentions elsewhere. 

Despite his resentment of Varric’s blunt description of his financing, the man was apt. Coin was an odd and precarious resource, and one with which he had a tangled relationship. It had felt deviant and rebellious to have coin of his own and to spend it on small whims. Fresh food from Hightown merchants, oil clothes and whetstones, even soothing creams to rub into his muscles and brands. 

Small luxuries he could wholly call his own, and indulge in secret. 

There was a seed of deviance in idle pleasures, one which had an addictive allure. 

Eyes darting to the nearby stalls he decided the cheesemonger seemed a good place to start. 

“Orlesian brie! Made with scallions and sheep’s milk!” The dwarven purveyor boomed when he caught him eyeing a large wheel of something supple and white. Unlike Varric, this man had a thick mane of black hair and a neatly plaited beard. “Aged half a year. The finest in Lowtown, I promise you!” 

Looking over the medley he tried to decide between soft and buttery or sharp and sour. 

Stopping, he considered a brick of orange with a hearty seal of wax. “Fereldan Sharp!” He heard from his periphery. “Made from the same recipe used by the cheesemaster of Denerim! The king himself favors it!” 

Scoffing, he edged away from the merchant to consider something pale and crumbly. 

“Imported from Antiva! Aged two years, and infused wi-” 

“Hello Fenris!” 

Swallowing down around his inhale of surprise, he spun to glare down into two green eyes. 

“Merrill.” He greeted, his ears burning under the steady attention of her gaze, and the merchant’s continued pandering. 

“How lovely to run into you like this,” she fussed, twisting her fingers together. “I was just going to go up to Hawke’s to ask how the trip went, and ask after you, but then I got rather distracted by the cloth merchant over there. Oh, and then the fruit stand. Have you seen the pears? They’re rather lovely this year. So plump! Last year they were horribly spotty and squashed.” 

“- aged Nevarran gouda pairs perfectly with fresh pears-” 

“I had not,” he said slowly. Then, more cautiously he asked. “Why were you going to ask after me?” 

“What’s a gooda?” She gasped instead, spinning from him to peer at the merchant. His teeth ground at her dismissal. 

“ _Gouda_ ,” the dwarf stressed as he pointed to a cut wheel with a yellowish rind. “This one here is aged two years and brined. Sharp and salty to compliment with sweet! A sample for your lady, serah elf?” 

Bristling, Fenris scowled at the man as the heat from his ears burned down to his throat. “She is _not_ my-” 

“Oh, may I?” The witch beamed, eyeing the cheese-wheel with captive intrigue. 

With a flourish that seemed out of place in the crowded stalls of Lowtown, the merchant made a show of slicing a thin sliver from the wheel and brandishing it on a dull cheeseknife. “Made with cow’s milk so it’s nice and rich, and has an immediate saltiness. Under that, you may taste some nutty undertones.” 

Humming her delight, the Dalish elf carefully plucked the cheese from his knife and gave it a considerate nibble. 

No less than the second had it touched her lips, the purveyor spun and opened his palm to Fenris. “Three silvers.” 

Reeling back, Fenris spat and glowered down at the man. “You said it was a sample.” 

“Never said it was a free sample,” the dwarf answered with a shrug. 

“And I never said she was my lady,” Fenris insisted. Glancing over at the wide-eyed witch who was still holding a crumbling piece of cheese to her mouth, he raised a brow at her. “So I feel it is only fair that she pay for her own sample.” 

“Oh my,” she stuttered, wiping hastily at the crumbs clinging to her bottom lip. “Well, you see, I wasn’t really expecting to go to market, so much as go _through_ it. And, um. Oh dear. I may have forgotten to bring my coin-purse with me?” 

“Of course you did,” he muttered with a baleful stare. Why he had fixated on her absence while on Sundermount now seemed a mystery. 

“Three silvers!” The dwarven merchant demanded, pointing a stubby finger between them. “Don’t make me call for the guard.” 

“Three silvers for a crumb of cheese is preposterous,” Fenris said, his tone flat and cool. “You’ll take a copper or you’ll take nothing at all.” 

“Shouldn’t samples be free?” The witch asked delicately. “It was hardly a bite at all!” 

“Not running a charity here, missy.” The merchant grumbled, shaking an eager palm in Fenris’s direction. “I give away a free crumb to a hundred and what’ve I got? No product to sell. Give that copper, elf.” 

“I’ll be taking my coin to the seller in Hightown after this,” Fenris warned as he dropped a single coin into the man’s grubby hand. 

The dwarf sniffed. “He's a cheat and a bastard. If he sells you anything at all it’ll be half as good as what I’ve got. I know how to not stiff out on you long ears.” 

“I suppose it would take a cheat and a bastard to know one,” he said crisply, pulling a sneer at the man as he turned away. “I tire of the air here, Merrill. It stinks of spoilt milk and feet.” 

“There are an awful lot of flies,” she agreed with a thoughtful frown. 

As they walked away from the grumbling dwarf, she lifted her hand and offered her palm to Fenris. With a scoff he accepted the sliver of white cheese from her hand and popped it into his mouth. 

The merchant was correct. It was quite rich and salty. 

*****

Somehow instead of taking the stairs up towards Hightown, he followed them down into the Alienage.

Despite the momentary awkwardness with the merchant, the witch seemed unperturbed. She nattered on mindlessly about a variety of subjects, seeming to weave in and out of several lines of thought and picking up threads of ideas as they came to her. More than once she assured him she would repay his copper coin, and seeing no reason to refuse her, he followed her towards her hovel. 

As they descended into the square, he held up a palm to stop her. 

“That there,” he said, jerking his chin towards where several workers were nailing together a wooden stage at the base of the vhenadahl. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought they were erecting gallows. “What is that?” 

“Oh, that!” The woman chirped eagerly. “It’s for the wedding!” 

“Wedding?” He wondered, watching with pinched brows as the men worked. 

“Of course, this way everyone in the alienage can watch the ceremony! I offered to do the traditional Dalish rites, but Hahren Reeba says that the wedding isn’t binding without a chantry mother.” The witch twisted her fingers together, her teeth plucking at her bottom lip in a rare display of displeasure. “I don’t see why I can’t offer the prayers alongside her. Even if it wouldn’t be binding, it would be lovely to join them in the ways of their ancestors.” 

“Most of these elves are Andrastian,” Fenris argued, shaking his head. “To them the correct way is with the chantry, not the chanting of an outsider.” 

Pursing her lips, the witch shrugged her slight shoulders and skirted around the working men. “Still, I don’t see why it would hurt. Dalish weddings are beautiful! We trade gifts and sing songs, pray and invoke the Creators, and the entire clan comes together to build an aravel for the newlyweds.” 

“I would imagine most wedding customs seem proper in the eyes of their people.” Fenris said, his lip curling in memory of attending such soirees at Danarius’s side. The rare and opulent weddings of the Tevinter magisters were decadent affairs, carefully constructed both to welcome and intimidate guests by the joining of two houses in power and prestige. 

It was not uncommon for such events to lead to a duel or assassination, often long before the dessert wines were served. 

“Oh, I’m sure they do.” Merrill demurred, stopping to watch as several women began winding decorative braided cloths around the trunk of the great tree. “I can’t wait until it’s ready. I missed the last wedding held, and poor Shala has been a nervous wreck.” 

“Shala?” He inquired stiffly out of politeness. 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you!” She squeaked, turning to him eagerly. “That’s why I couldn’t come along, you see. Shala is the bride whose come from the Ostwick alienage. It isn’t proper for her to stay with the groom’s family before the wedding, so Reeba has her staying with me.” 

His heart stuttered, and he thought of her demonic mirror, her runic staff, and the no doubt many magical items strewn through-out her small home. “Is that wise? She may betray you to the templars.” 

Flapping her hand, Merrill shook her head. “Oh, she only comes in to sleep, really. Dear thing is so anxious, and so busy! Getting her dress, meeting her new family, making the preparations. You can meet her tomorrow! If she isn’t too busy, that is.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

Merrill tutted. “The _wedding_ , Fenris.” 

Staring, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not live in the Alienage, witch. I will not be here for it.” 

Blinking, the woman hesitated before twisting her fingers. “Oh dear, I forgot to ask, didn’t I? I just assumed. That is, if you wouldn’t mind horribly, it’s just that there’s so many awful rumors and Shala has been so _nervous_ , that I really had hoped you might come. Perhaps. To keep things... civil. And safe.” 

“Safe?” He questioned, one brow lifting. “What would a wedding need my sword arm for?” 

Merrill’s fidgeting gave her the appearance of a flighty sparrow. “There’s some rather nasty stories about humans who come to the alienages during weddings. Sometimes just to shout terrible things, but other times to pick fights.” The witch swallowed thickly. “Sometimes to do worse.” 

Shifting his weight uncomfortably, he reached pick a stone from between his toes. While the witch’s caution was sound, he was reluctant to be little more than a sword at a mage’s behest. “Why not ask Hawke? She would agree to your request readily.” 

The blood mage sighed. “Hawke is lovely, but she makes a spectacle of herself at times. The elves here are going to be far too nervous for an armed human to be running about making jokes.” 

Grunting, he saw her point. “Aveline, then. She could have a patrol watch the entrance.” 

She shook her head. “These people don’t _trust_ the guard, Fenris. Many of them have been done wrong in the past. No, armored humans will just add to the tension.” 

“But my sword and brands will not?” 

She offered him a small smile. “A fellow elf won’t draw any attention, and most everyone will just assume you’re Dalish. Oh please, you’re so vigilant Fenris, I’m sure you’d know something was wrong before anyone here did. And if nothing happens at all then... well, there will be a lot of food and drink! We can feed you up and send you home with a bottle. I doubt anyone would mind.” 

Weighing the pros and cons of the situation, he made the mistake of meeting the Dalish elf’s eyes. They were large, green, and utterly beseeching. 

It was a dirty trick made all the dirtier by the fact he allowed himself to be swayed. 

“Fine,” he agreed with a growl. 

*****

The next day found him at the base of the Alienage steps, sword sharpened and at his back, and his nerves tight as he watched the goings on.

Overnight the alienage had transformed. Despite its impoverished and sunken state, the square was lively with swathes of color. Decorative cloths were tied and streaming, from the vhenadahl to every doorway and peddler’s stand, and delicate designs had been painted into the cobblestone with colorful pigments. 

It was the most cheerful he had ever seen the dour place, and it made him shift his weight with reluctant appreciation. 

Though he was early, Merrill found him quickly, and walked towards him with light doe footed steps and a beaming smile. It made the dormant ache in his belly give a twist, and he hid the flinch it inspired. 

“Doesn’t everything look lovely?” She asked as she approached, the small plaits in her hair neatly redone and her skin gleaming from a recent bath. “I saw the brides preparing this morning and nearly wept because they were so beautiful.” 

“Two brides?” Fenris questioned in surprise. “That is unusual, is it not?” 

Shrugging, the witch picked her finger nails. It drew attention to the thin white scars on her hands and he turned his eyes away. “It’s a double wedding,” she explained. “With the Dalish that really only happens during an arlathvhen, but Reeba says it’s normal for city elves.” 

“And your friend,” he asked. “She came from Ostwick?” 

The witch nodded eagerly. “Shala came with Tuelen. A bride and groom come from one city to another, where they each marry a bride or groom. Then one couple stays and the other returns.” She pitched her voice low. “She’s staying here. Our bride, Brithari, will leave for Ostwick with Tuelen in a few days.” 

“A strange manner of courtship, to be sure.” 

The witch’s bright demeanor dimmed. “All arranged. It’s quite sad, isn’t it? The Dalish court and marry for love, but these elves, their hahren’s write to other cities to have them matchmade. Shala’s barely spoken to her groom but she’s marrying him today. Isn’t that frightening?” 

It was. However, arranged marriage was common in Tevinter, not only among the elite, but among the slaves as well. It was not uncommon for a magister to see promise in the joining of two favored slaves and to push a handfasting, be it for their combined skills or the prospect of children with desirable traits. 

Some found love in the dark corners of their master’s households. But most, to his knowledge, did not. 

“This hahren seems a sensible woman,” he said instead. “I’m sure she agreed to this match because it was favorable to the girl.” 

It wasn’t the most soothing thing to say, but Merrill seemed appeased. Her smile returned, slight and small as the rest of her, before she began bouncing on her toes in nervous excitement. 

“The chantry mother should be here soon,” she explained, eyes bouncing from each decoration and bustling body. “Oh, I wish I could help, but I kept getting chased off for being in the way. There’s just so much happening and so many questions I wish to ask, but no one has the time!” 

“Should they have the patience for it, I imagine they can answer you after the festivities.” Fenris said as he crossed his arms. From his place at the stairs he took stock of each crawlspace and alley mouth, of each doorway, and the low slanted roofs of the hovels. A gathering of so many elves caught in revelry was perhaps an opportunity too sweet for slavers to resist, and he would be vigilant. 

“I will station myself there,” he said, picking the ideal vantage and pointing to it. It was a small spot, near a stack of crates on the other side of the square, but would allow him to see both the entrance and into the periphery. “I would suggest you discourage gathering here at the staircase. If there were to be an attack, it would begin here.” 

Shoulders drooping, the witch hesitated before nodding. “Of course,” she murmured. “I’ll go tell Reeba.” 

Unsure what he had done to disappoint her, he turned and stalked towards his post. 

*****

The chantry mother was late, but it did not seem to disturb the air of celebration. Just as the ceremony began, Merrill appeared at his elbow, and Fenris spared her only a glance before returning to his watch.

Despite the tension in his spine and shoulders as he stood vigilant, he could not deny the breath that left him as the couples made their appearance. Led by an older woman with a stern face and steely hair, the hahren he assumed, the brides and grooms were fresh faced and youthful. Two comely girls in white shifts and wreaths of flowers in their hair climbed the stairs to the platform, soon followed by two young men with carefully slicked hair and shaking hands. 

“That’s Shala, with the yellow hair.” The blood mage whispered to him in an eager squeak. The flaxen haired girl was pale faced but smiling bashfully at a young man with black hair and nut-brown skin. 

“And her groom to-be?” He asked, the question falling unbidden from his tongue. 

“Eolas,” she murmured, her nose scrunching as she remembered details. “The potter’s son, I think.” 

“A fine couple they make,” he commented idly, sparing a glance for a quick examination of the younglings. The second bride, a willowy creature with brown curls, was nearly trembling with nerves. “The other girl seems troubled.” 

“I think she’s frightened to leave,” Merrill said in a hushed and sympathetic voice. “Shala will live here now, but Brithari has to leave for Ostwick with... oh, what was his name? Tuelen! Yes, she leaves with Tuelen. Poor girl. I don’t suppose she's ever traveled before.” 

“Why must they make the return trip? Surely it is safer for them to remain here.” 

Merrill hesitated before pitching her voice lower. “It’s not unlike an arlathvhen, I think. The communities are small, so you need to trade folk around to keep bloodlines from getting too... muddled.” 

“Maker guard them on the journey,” he muttered lowly. A small party of elves, young and inexperienced, would be easy pickings for any bandit on the roads. 

"Tuelanen ama esh’ala.” Merrill whispered, and though he did not know the words, he knew their sentiment echoed his own. 

A ripple of chatter erupted from the crowd and Fenris tensed, only to relax when he saw the distinct robes of a chantry mother passing through those gathered at the platform’s base. She walked stiff and proud, an oddly passive expression on her face as she climbed the steps. 

Unsure what to expect, Fenris arched a brow when she began the vows after only a hushed conversation with the hahren. 

“I expected more showmanship,” he said under his breath, tearing his eyes away to watch the stairs instead. The mother’s voice was strong and carried, but droned without elegance. 

Quietly, nearly silent as if speaking without breath, the witch murmured in hushed Elvhen beside him. Ears twitching, his lip curled as her chant continued through-out the mother’s, her words jumbling and fumbling in her haste to keep time with woman’s recital. 

“Are you truly doing the Dalish rites out of spite?” He whispered in exasperation. 

A glance confirmed the stubborn tilt to her brow he had expected, and he snorted. 

*****

Somehow, after the ceremony was complete, and ale and bread began to pass amongst the throngs of celebrating men and women, Fenris found himself at Merrill’s dining table.

It had been... loud. Good, joyous, but more than he cared for when packed in amongst so many people. Shoulders had brushed his, and despite his sword and armor, and despite his glaring brands, it did not send them from him in suspicion or disgust. He was jostled and caroused around until his jaw clenched hard enough to ache, and only his own pride had prevented him from fleeing up the stairs and out of the alienage. 

Then, as though she had dared to peek into his mind, the blood witch offered up her table for them to take their meal. 

She chattered eagerly about the newlyweds, about Dalish courtships and wedding rites, about how sour and bored the chantry mother had been through-out the vows. She fussed over his plate and cup, eagerly refilling both until his stomach was cramped and full, and his leggings felt tight. Then she fussed until he excused himself to take his leave, flitting about his elbows with breathy praise for his watch over the wedding party, and thanks for joining her for supper. 

It wasn’t until he returned to his mansion, dark and stale aired, that he realized she had never repayed him his copper coin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible summary: fenris gets tricked into going on a date


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. This chapter is late as, I'm sure many of you can guess, direct result of the world gone insane. Work has officially been laid off for me which means I have the _time_ to write, but for the most part, am too stressed to focus. As a result this chapter is a little shorter, and a little rougher. I may clean it up in the days to come, but please bare with me.
> 
> Stay safe, guys. Wash your hands and hug a pet.

Something shifts and Fenris doesn’t know what to make of it.

It’s small. Barely perceptible, like a piece of furniture being rearranged in a room. Everything is very much the same, but there is a lingering sense of displacement he can’t shake. He takes the jobs recommended to him by Aveline, he follows Hawke on her ventures, and when time and his own interest permits, he takes evenings at the Hanged Man to play games of cards and dice. 

In between all of these things are moments with the mages, and something feels askew. 

It is most notable, he believes, with the blood mage. Since that day in the Alienage there is an ease in how she approaches him. While guileless in her attentions, there had always been an air of caution that seems to have bled away. Now she engages him boldly, eagerly, and his gruffness does not deter her. It is a minor difference but one which makes his thoughts pace and spin. 

The abomination is more distant, but no less concerning. On multiple outings Fenris has turned his head to find the man watching him, a frown pulling at his features. Wherein the past that frown would have been a sneer of distaste, or distrust, now it is thoughtful. 

Fenris feels seen, but to what measure, he is unsure. 

*****

It is on a humid evening that the witch accosts him outside the Hanged Man.

Varric and Isabela had lured him in on the promise of gambling and several rounds of piss-water ale, and it was with a pleasant buzz skittering along his skull that he left the tavern. His coin purse was a touch fuller than when he had arrived, the sun was just setting, and he had the idle thought to practice his reading long into the rest of the night. 

Abruptly, those plans changed, as a slight figure appeared at his elbow with a smile and a bounce in her step. 

“Fenris!” The witch enthused, beaming up at him as though the chance meeting had been a scheduled affair. “I was hoping to find you. Are you terribly busy?” 

He blinked down at her, unsure and suspicious. “How did you know to find me here?” 

“Oh, I didn’t.” She denied, shaking her head and clasping her hands. “It’s just, this is the closest place you might be and _sometimes_ you’re here, so it seemed wise that if I were to start looking, to come here first. And I saw you come out from across the square! Isn’t that terribly lucky?” 

“Terribly,” he agreed, arching a brow down at her. 

“Yes, well.” The witch fussed, twisting her fingers. “You haven’t taken your supper yet, have you?” 

“Supper?” Fenris repeated, confused. 

The witch’s eyes were far too large, and gleamed in the torchlight. “Yes, supper. I made some stew. And bread. Oh, and I have cheese scones leftover from Tuesday, they shouldn’t be stale just yet. And if they are, you could dip them in the stew?” 

“You were going to hunt me down in Kirkwall just to offer me stew?” He questioned, thinking of the roving packs of gangs and cutpurses to haunt the shadows. 

“And bread!” 

“But why?” He asked, still not seeing her reasoning. 

“Oh,” the blood mage murmured, shifting her weight on her toes. “Well. That is, um. I thought it might be nice to share it with you.” 

He recalled bread and ale, the unexpectedly pleasant brushing of knees at a small table, and the promise of a copper coin. Curiously, his ears burned for reasons he could not understand. 

“Surely there are... others, with whom you would better enjoy sharing your evening.” He said, reluctant to refuse her outright. “Isabela is inside. Perhaps she would be good company.” 

The witch’s teeth plucked at her lip, and she fidgeted. “Isabela is wonderful company, but I had rather hoped you would be agreeable. You’re quite pleasant to be around when you’re not all grouchy, you know.” 

“Is that so?” Fenris asked, his lips betraying him into an amused quirk. “To hear it told, I’m always grouchy.” 

“Not with a belly full of good food you’re not!” The witch insisted brightly. “I thought you were quite a gentleman after the wedding.” 

“I’ve been accused of many things, but never being a gentleman.” 

“Oh, you’re not so scary.” The witch tutted, a playful glint in her eye. “Come now. A dinner between friends isn’t too awful, is it?” 

Something in him balked at that careless statement. Despite the years between them, friends seemed a far too intimate word to share with a witch, a blood mage, a person with whom he had often felt contempt. But at the same time, they had guarded each other in battle, broken their fasts together, and shared the same ground and air in many a campsite. While she may not be a friend to him the way Isabela or Hawke may be, was she not a companion? 

In his contemplation silence stretched, and the witch’s fidgeting turned nervous and shaky. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders drooping. “Um. I suppose... I suppose I could see if Isabela is free.” 

“No,” he said, and the word seemed conjured to his tongue. His heart beat loudly, and he was unsure if it was the lingering tingle of the alcohol or the sudden brightness in her eyes that made his ears buzz and heat. “No, it is a kind invitation. I shall join you.” 

“Lovely,” she said, with a breathlessness that made his own lungs hitch. There was a pink tinge to her cheeks he had only ever seen under duress, or from her peculiar admiration of the mage. It made him uneasy and thrilled him to strange measures. 

“I knew you were a softy under all those spikes.” She said, the playful coyness returning to her voice. 

“Under these spikes are more spikes,” he said dryly. 

“Oh, you liar,” she chastised with a giggle. “Come along then, before the food gets cold.” With unnerving thoughtlessness, she reached and took his wrist in a loose hold. 

Foolish, brazen, and guileless. 

He allowed it and refused to consider why. 

*****

“One of these days,” Hawke griped, wiping her dagger clean on her thigh. “You’ll tell me just what it is we’re looking for so we’ll know we’ve _found_ it.”

Even blood streaked and sweat stained, Isabela maintained an air of brash beauty. “Lovely, when we find it, there will be no doubt.” 

From behind him, Fenris heard the abomination scoff. “I thought you said you didn’t know what it was?” He asked, his tone mockingly innocent. “Locked in a chest, you said? Hadn’t bothered to take a peek inside, as likely as that is?” 

The pirate’s lips twisted for a moment, before her expression settled back into something blithe and sly. “I’ve a nose for treasure like a mabari,” she said carelessly. “It could be locked in _three_ chests and I’d still know it’s what we’re after.” 

“And yet,” Fenris said. “It has been three years and you’ve yet to find it.” 

If Isabela was annoyed, she hid it well. “Sweet thing,” she crooned. “If you and Anders want to gang up on me, I can think of far more delectable ways to do so.” 

Hawke made a strangled sound, but her eyes went worryingly starry. “Now there’s a thought to keep me warm in the tub.” 

Fenris’s ears burned, and rolling his eyes he turned to spit in the sand. Squinting, he tried to determine if the spittle looked bloody, or if it was merely the light. “There are runestones for such a thing. Keep me from your fantasies.” 

The two women snickered, but Isabela turned to him with crafty eyes. Her gaze was heavy and assessing, and he stood still beneath it, refusing to cave despite the spreading warmth stinging at his ears and cheeks. 

“Spoilsport,” she chastised. “Can you really blame a girl for imagining that smoky voice and lanky body in delicious detail?” 

Snorting, he prodded at his sore jaw and wondered if a tooth had come loose. “I can if I’ve asked her to abstain.” 

The pirate’s eyes narrowed. “Are you blushing?” She asked, head tilting thoughtfully. 

“Is he?” Hawke asked, her voice delighted. 

“He is not,” Fenris denied. 

“Absolutely,” Isabela insisted, taking wide strides towards him. With the mage behind him and the pirate before him, he had no ground to retreat to, so he only frowned more deeply under her inspection. Eyes raking him from forehead to knees, her lips curled into an approving smirk. “Oh, Fen, you darling. How cute.” 

“Izzy,” the mage called. “Flirt all you like, but don’t think you’re off the hook for this wild goose chase you’ve set us on.” 

“You’re just upset I’m not flirting with you, tiger.” The pirate said with a flippant gesture. Sparing Fenris a grin, she turned with an exaggerated sway to her hips. 

“Truly, I’m seething with jealousy.” The mage said flatly, and with a scrape of heavy boots on sandy shale he appeared at Fenris’s side. “I may have to cry myself to sleep tonight knowing your affections have wandered so far.” 

“Weep for me not, lover boy. You always knew my only love was the sea.” 

“I know you two are joking,” Hawke said, her eyes bounding between the two. “But I feel like I’m missing something.” 

“Hawke, sweetness.” Isabela tsked. “I met him in a brothel. I know you know your maths, so put two and two together. What do you get?” 

“Four?” 

“A memory to keep me warm in the tub,” Anders said dryly. 

Hawke stopped and stared at the two, her brow arched halfway to her hairline. “But you were joking,” she accused. “I was sure of it.” 

The abomination shrugged. “One never jokes about a tryst with a woman who could murder him six ways with a spoon.” 

“But the chances of that-” 

“Coincidences are the spice of life, lovely. I’ve been there and done him.” Isabela declared, looking far too pleased with herself. 

“But it's a _brothel_. Who goes to a brothel to pick up a not-prostitute?” 

“Technically, that first time was a fluke.” The mage explained. “We were both trying to hire the same working girl, and rather than take turns, we decided to compromise and go at the same time.” 

“Normally I’d have made a man wait his turn – ladies first after all. But he had an _adorable_ look about him,” Isabela confided to the other woman in a stage whisper. “All rakish charm but wide eyed and earnest as a little boy. Then when he showed off that little sparkly trick with the Lay Warden, I decided to give it a go one on one. Excellent choice on my part.” 

“I knew you loved me for that alone.” 

“Don’t be like that. You also have a lovely c-” 

“Enough!” Fenris demanded, wishing to wash his mind and ears of the last several minutes. “I have learned far more of your affairs than I have any need of. Isabela – are you satisfied with our search or should we press on?” 

Sighing dramatically, the rogue shook her head. “It’s a wash for the day. Shall we head back?” 

“Yes please.” Hawke said, rolling her neck with a pop. “With this much daylight left I can look forward to an evening in my own bed.” 

“I have patients to attend to,” the mage added. 

“And I’m suddenly craving a warm bath,” Isabela said with a wink, hooking her elbow with the other woman’s and dragging her forward with a shared giggle. 

The mage watched the two women dart off with narrowed eyes, the corner of his lips twitching upwards before settling into a resigned frown. “She’s going to ask Izzy about my knob. I’m just sure of it.” 

“A dilemma of your own design,” Fenris muttered. 

“Likely so,” the mage admitted, loitering at his side. Unusually hesitant, the man started several times before reaching and rubbing the corner of his own jaw. “You still have quite the bruise,” he said. “Is it sore?” 

Grunting, he gave the mage a shrug and began following the winding path the women had taken. “My jaw is un-broken,” he said. “The pain and bruising will fade.” 

Taking long strides, Anders followed him with haste, brushing closely enough for feathers to catch on the spiked points of his pauldrons . Uncertain by the sudden proximity, Fenris hesitated before taking a step away and arching a brow. 

“You don’t have to _wait_ for it to fade,” the man said, exasperation tinging his words. “That is, if you’d like me to heal it, I can.” 

“It is a small matter,” he said, shaking his head. Hawke and Isabela were now long from sight and while he held no fear for the abomination, alone together on the coast he felt off-footed. While thick with an uneasy tension on both sides, an uncertain understanding had formed silently, and there was no telling what might disrupt it. 

“You know,” the mage said, dragging his words thoughtfully. “You don’t need to compartmentalize your pain. Just because it could be worse doesn’t mean it can’t actually be dealt with immediately.” 

“I am doing no such thing,” he denied, cutting the man an inspective look. “I merely see no need to use magic on a trifle.” 

“You’re a stubborn ass,” the mage said, but despite the bite to his words there was a clear lack of heat. “Let me try something else, then. It’s truly a pity to look at you right now.” 

The mage stepped abruptly off the path and Fenris stilled, watching with cautious intrigue as the man fetched something from the ground, and returned with a smooth palm-sized stone. “I learned this in Amaranthine,” he explained, magic flaring and stinging along Fenris’s brands as ice encased the rock in the human’s hand. 

Pulling a ratty handkerchief from his coat pocket, the mage wrapped the frozen stone and offered it to him. “Hold this to your jaw as long as you can,” he instructed. “It’ll ease the pain and swelling.” 

“A useful trick,” Fenris admitted, gingerly accepting the cold parcel and examining the rag for suspicious stains before pressing it to his face. The cold stung and made him wince, but once the cold burn faded the area began to numb. 

“The Commander’s idea,” the human said with a shrug. “I spent years perfecting hospice healing in the Circle, but the Dalish have more of a knack for triage. He had quite a bit to teach me.” 

“You speak of the man fondly,” Fenris remarked. “Not another tryst of yours?” 

“The Commander?” Anders gasped, breaking off into startled laughter. Like the night he had drank himself stupid on Rivaini moonshine this laughter was loud and inelegant, and Fenris found himself wondering if all the other soft chuckles he’d heard before were false. “I was loose and foolish, not stupid. No, only a friend that one.” 

“Likely wise,” he agreed. “Fraternization with a man who slew an Archdemon would perhaps be... messy.” 

“To say the least,” the mage snorted. Cutting him a curious look, the human raised a brow in question. “Why so curious? My love-life hardly seems to be a topic that would interest you.” 

“Were you not the one to make it all of our business as you aired your sordid past with Isabela?” He countered. 

The mage’s gait slowed and he turned towards him. “Isabela is a wicked flirt,” he said, seemingly unnecessarily. “But if you were to tell her you were... uncomfortable, she may listen. Ease off it a bit. She’s soft under all that salt, you know.” 

Frowning, Fenris considered the man. “I have no doubt,” he agreed. 

“Good,” Anders murmured. “That’s good.” 

Unsure but certain he has missed something important, Fenris cocked his head and squinted at the man. “Mage?” 

The human shook his head, looking out over the dunes. “Right, well, let’s catch up to those two before they can stumble into any more trouble.” He diverted, seeming finished with the odd conversation. “I haven’t the potions on me to keep putting you all back together.” 

“Very well,” Fenris agreed slowly, the ache in his jaw forgotten but the one in his belly flaring. 

*****

Somehow, dinners at the witch’s home become a _thing_.

It is a line of thought that he steers clear of, lest he be forced to question his own motives. Instead, once a week he sits at her table, their knees crowded together, as they break bread and have idle and nearly one sided conversations. Through her babble he learns more than he ever need know of the Alienage gossip, or Dalish folklore, or what the women of their group got up to when the men were not present. 

“We have brunch once a month,” she tells him one night, over a dish of what she swears is chicken but tastes like pigeon. “It was Aveline’s idea, if you can believe it! I think she misses adventuring with us.” 

“She is diligent in her dedication to the guard,” Fenris agreed. “Possibly to a fault, at times.” 

“It gives her very little time to socialize,” the witch lamented. “So we’ve made a bit of a tradition of it. We all go up to this little place in High Town and eat these tiny little cakes. They are so adorable, like little cake shaped flower buds. Oh, that’s a thought isn’t it? Cake flowers? I’ve heard of flowers that are sweet enough to pluck and eat from the stem, but flowers that grow _into_ cakes. Isn’t that a funny thought?” 

“Your hen brunches,” he reminded her, as she began to sidetrack. 

“Right,” she said, giving herself a shake. “Wonderful little cakes, but far too sweet. Oh, the server got so cross when I told him the cook was using too much sugar. And Aveline told me I was being rude! I wasn’t being rude, he asked how we were enjoying things, so I told him the truth.” 

“Humans in high society have no taste for honesty,” he advised her, picking the bones carefully from his meat. “When they ask you how you’ve enjoyed something, they expect you to simply simper and praise it.” 

“Well that’s not helpful,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “If you ask someone for advice, or criticism, or anything at all, you should hope they are honest. How else can anyone get better?” 

“That is your mistake,” he told her. “They do not ask because they wish to improve. They ask because they want you to compliment them.” 

“But Isabela once sent her drink back because they hadn’t put in enough liquor, and the server was quick to fix it!” 

“That is because Isabela is a human, and her words have more merit to them.” He said, stabbing at the shredded poultry with his fork. 

“Oh,” Merrill murmured, pushing her food around her plate. “I never can seem to get used to that. I know that some shemlens are thick-headed and awful, but not listening to me just because I think their cakes are too sweet is just silly.” 

“Try not to ascribe logic to human bigotry,” he warned. “There is none to be found.” 

“I suppose,” she agreed with a sigh. 

Lapsing into a bitter silence, he shifted in his chair and wished he had held his tongue. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your brunches. I imagine you gossip like fishwives.” 

The witch blinked at him. “Fish get married? Oh, are there fish weddings?” 

“Merrill,” he warned. 

Giggling, the blood mage fiddled with her napkin. “Oh, we gossip,” she agreed, a look of mischief to her. “Mostly about men. Well, you men, specifically.” 

“I dare not ask,” he groaned, reaching for his cup. 

Her giggles tapered off into soft hitches of breath, and she played with her cutlery. “I think Hawke has a crush on Varric,” she confided. “She makes jokes about you all, but sometimes, with him, I don’t think she’s joking.” 

Fenris snorted. “Hawke has a crush on everyone. For a rogue, she lacks subtlety.” 

“No, really!” The witch insisted. “I truly think she has _feelings_ for him. She’s always joking that she’s jealous of Bianca, but she gets so quiet and serious after.” 

“Hawke is a woman who yearns for what she cannot ever attain.” 

“Oh, what woman doesn’t?” The witch sighed, her eyes distant. “It’s sad, though. I think she really cares for him, but she flirts with everyone to try and hide it.” 

“She is young and stubborn,” he said, shaking his head. “Time will cure her of her foolish affections.” 

The witch gasped, looking offended on the human woman’s behalf. “Oh, but they aren’t foolish. Misguided perhaps. I don’t think Varric has any interest in human women, but that doesn’t mean she’s foolish for liking him. Varric is lovely! If you like your men to be short.” 

Chewing thoughtfully, he considered his plate. “And you do not prefer your men short?” 

“Oh no,” the witch said, her tone wistful. “I rather like them tall.” 

If he happened to stand a little straighter as he left her hovel that night, then surely it was coincidence. 

*****

Against his better judgement, an invitation falls from his mouth the next time he sees the mage.

It is not a thought he had considered. They are merely stooped, shoulder to shoulder, in a low cavern as Hawke roots for long-forgotten trinkets, when the words escape him. 

“We play Diamondback,” he said, brushing spiderwebs from his face. They stick and cling to his gauntlets and he is forced to flap his hand to try and remove them. “At my mansion twice a month. You would be welcome to join, if you like.” 

The mage’s expression was pinched, but seemingly not for his invitation. Perhaps it was the low ceiling, or the persistent odor of bat shit. “Who is this ‘we’ then?” 

“Myself. Varric. Sebastian.” 

The mage snorted. “I’m surprised Ser Pious can make the time to attend.” 

“He is an excellent cardplayer,” Fenris said, ignoring the slight against the Chantry brother. “But our games would be better rounded with another player.” 

“And it only took you how long to decide to invite me?” The mage asked, his tone wry. 

“Unimportant,” he said, waving a hand. Frowning, he noticed there was still cobweb clinging to the joints. “Are you... interested?” 

The mage sighed, the sound nearly overtaken by the loud crash and rustle coming from Hawke overturning an old minecart. “I suppose a boy’s night here and there might do me some good.” 

“It would certainly be fair,” Fenris agreed. “If the girls must have their brunches, then we can have our card games.” 

“There’s brunches?” The mage asked, looking puzzled. “Why aren’t we invited? I love brunch.” 

“A woman’s only affair, or so I’m told.” He said with a shrug. 

“Well, now I’m simply offended.” The human said, sounding anything but. “Alright, boy’s night it is. If only so we can choose to not invite them.” 

“I’m glad my offer of it is worth it to you for pettiness alone.” 

“There’s been brunch and I’ve been left out. I’m allowed to be petty.” 

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Then take yourself to brunch.” 

“Who goes to brunch alone?” Anders said, sounding aghast. “Take me yourself.” 

Fenris snorted. “I’m already inviting you to cards.” 

A smirk toyed at the mage’s mouth, his eyes gleaming like tigereye in the low light. “And brunch is too much to ask?” 

Looking away, Fenris considered the low ceiling and ignored the heat creeping up his neck. “Ask me again after cards.” 

*****

There was also the issue of the mages themselves.

Much as with himself, the witch’s caution bled away into something playful and earnest, and she now approached the human mage with ease. Ease met with bafflement, as the abomination always watched her with confusion laced with suspicion when she approached him. She had a cloying attention; Sweet and thorned, sticking to him like a bramble when she set her eyes on him. More than once the human had tried to shake her away either with strong words or simple distraction, but she only clung all the harder. 

Their companions seem to find it amusing, but Fenris wondered. 

*****

One night as he leaves the Alienage, a figure waits for him at the stairs.

The elven woman is older, with steely hair and eyes, and he slows to a stop as he meets her. Lowering his head, he greets her appropriately. “Hahren.” 

“Reeba, is fine.” She tells him and despite her no-nonsense appearance, her voice is soft and warm, like well-worn fabric. Standing under her scrutiny, he meets her eyes as she looks him over, her attention lingering on the lyrium lines of his chin, and again on his armor and weapon. 

“Is there something I can assist you with, Reeba?” 

Leaning back against the wall, the older elf gave him a long look before sighing. “Merrill’s a good girl. Odd, but good. I make a promise to look after all the elves who live here, and that includes her.” 

“I understand,” he said slowly, unsure what had prompted such an introduction. 

“And you’ve been paying visits to her for a few weeks now.” 

Shifting his weight, he resisted his desire to squirm under the implications of her words. “Yes.” 

“And so I think it’s only fair to tell you that you’re not the only man who’s been... calling on her.” 

Bristling, he narrowed his eyes at the woman. “I have no claim on the woman. We take meals together. That is all.” 

Sighing, the elder shook her head. “I’m not trying to make accusations. She’s a good girl. But between having you sneaking in and out and that _shem_ she’s been entertaining, there’s a bit of gossip starting to rile up. I’m trying to protect her.” 

“A shemlen?” He questioned, his thoughts whirring. 

“Mmhm,” Reeba agreed. “Tall fellow. Seems good enough, never makes any fuss and is quiet, but you know how folks are. One gentleman caller is a courtship. Two? And one is a shem? That’s a harlot.” 

“Merrill?” He scoffed. “She thinks a harlot is a kind of flower.” 

“Maker’s blessings on that poor girl,” the hahren agreed with an exasperated shake of her head. “I know better. You may know better. But you may want to warn her that reputation can mean a lot in a community like this.” 

“I see no reason to shame her for entertaining guests in her own home,” he said crisply. 

“Maybe so,” the elder said as she pushed away from the wall. “But for a single woman, reputation is everything. I’d rather she hear it from a friend than from me.” 

“Very well.” He said, with no intention of having that conversation. “Good evening to you, Reeba.” 

“On dhea’lam, child.” The woman bowed her head as she brushed past him, and though he was offended on the witch’s behalf, he could admire the quiet dignity of the elder. 

It was a conversation he dared not repeat, no matter what his suspicions were. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to grab fenris and scream DATING YOU ARE DATING.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, friends! Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, I had a good chunk of it written months back, but then I got called back to work and things have been... weird. I've also had a touch of the writer's block, but hey, here we are! Like... half a year later. Hope you guys are still tracking this story.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who commented! You're all absolutely lovely people, and I hope you've been staying safe and comfortable. <33

For several weeks Fenris broods.

It is not anger or angst, but the simple issue of having a vague question and no answer.

Each time he meets with the witch to take their weekly supper, his eyes scan her small home, eager to find some clue. He listens to her prattle with newly vigored interest, counting how many times the abomination is mentioned, and growing restless when she does not mention him at all. He watches the mage and witch with scrutiny, trying to decide if it is his imagination, or if their hands brush when they walk side by side. He lays awake in their shared tent on campouts and listens to whispered breaths and soft snores, and tries to determine if their ease is solitary, or shared.

His mind stirs and his stomach aches, but he doesn’t dare ask.

He doesn’t know what the answer is, what he wants it to be, or why he cares.

*****

Jaunts to the coast were no new venture, but the one at hand had taken a strange turn.

“Blighted bloody idiot fool,” Hawke muttered repeatedly, glaring down the hill to where Aveline and her guardsman followed.

“This is sad,” the mage agreed, watching the distant figures with exasperation and boredom. “Wasn’t she married before?”

“Maker knows how,” Hawke grumbled. “I’m starting to think she must have stolen him from his home like an Avvar.”

“Perhaps she should have done it again,” the witch whispered. She was watching the two figures keenly, far too intrigued with the proceedings. “Guardsman Donnic seems like he might enjoy being swept off his feet.”

“You think?” Hawke asked, tilting her head and squinting. “He seems a bit too good ol’ boy for that. Told me he likes a woman with a spine, but somehow, I don’t think he meant one of steel.”

“It’s the sideburns,” the mage said. “They make him look tougher than he is. Maker save him, but anyone with eyes can tell Aveline is a woman who would want a man she could boss around.”

“I think his sideburns are endearing. He looks like a kindly badger.”

“He looks as though he could use a stiff drink,” Fenris snorted.

“Funny,” the mage said dryly. “Here I was thinking Aveline was the one needing something stiff.”

“Would you both shut up and - what is she _doing_ ,” Hawke hissed, crouching low and glaring at the couple. “She won’t even look at the man!”

“Maybe if someone flirts with him, she’ll get jealous and make a move,” the mage suggested. “Why didn’t we bring Isabela?”

“To give that great ginger idiot a fighting chance.” Hawke said with a scowl. “I’m not doing it; he’s already shot me down. You go do it.”

“Me?” Anders gaped. “Oh, because that will go well. Wanted apostate makes a move on guardsman. Guardsman who has the guard _captain_ panting after him like a bi-”

“Would you two quiet?” Fenris warned, ducking as the two humans climbed the hill. “I want to hear what she’s saying.”

The other three fell into silence as the two guards crested the hill, and beside him, the witch nearly vibrated with excitement. Rustling wind and the clank of heavy plate armor was all his straining ears could hear at first, but then, the murmur of voices. Tilting his head and squinting from their hiding place, he tried to make it out.

“What are they-” Hawke started to whisper, and the mage hushed her.

“- nice night, for an evening-”

“I’m going to kill her.” Hawke murmured, sotto voice.

“Shhh,” Merrill shushed, flapping her hand at the other woman. A moment later she had her head propped on her hands, watching the struggling guard captain with a look of delighted fascination.

“-as you say, Captain.”

Heaving a sigh, Hawke gestured to them, and staying low they crept away from their hiding place and further up the sprawling trails of the dunes.

“She’s worse off than I thought,” the mage said once they were ahead of the doomed couple. “Or perhaps he’s simply daft.”

“Maybe we should have taken the goats to his mother,” Merrill said, attaching herself to the mage’s elbow. The human gave her a startled glance, and Fenris felt something twist and lodge itself warmly under his ribs. The high points of the mage’s sharp cheekbones were dusty pink and the witch’s eyes gleamed like polished jewels in the setting sun. “I swear, courtship with the Dalish isn’t this difficult. Are all city folk so bad at it?”

Hawke scrubbed a hand over her face, her brows pinched and frustrated. “That woman has gone toe to toe with everything from Carta to darkspawn, but ask her to simply tell a man she has feelings for him and you’d think she was facing down a high dragon.”

“No, she’d charge screaming at the dragon.” The abomination said, tone flustered as he stole glances down at the witch’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Here she merely blubbers like a fool.”

“Lethallin,” the blood mage admonished with a soft cluck of her tongue. “Don’t say such things. It’s unkind.”

“The witch is correct,” Fenris agreed soberly, tearing his eyes away from the pair of mages before the ache in his chest could grow. “It is an insult to fools.”

“Heads up, you lot.” Hawke warned, lifting her daggers. “Looks like we have mabari ahead.”

The mage made a disgusted sound. “Again? How many do these people have?”

“Maybe that’s why the owners are bandits,” Merrill suggested. “So that they can feed them all.”

“I hate killing dogs,” Fenris muttered. The witch, from her place tucked near the mage’s elbow, glanced over and gave him a sympathetic smile.

*****

“- isn’t done right, the blade will be soft. Quenching the steel is a vital step-”

Fenris had to lunge to catch Hawke around the waist when she tore off to give the guard captain a piece of her mind, and was forced to dig his heels into the hard-packed sand when she pulled them both forward.

“- stupid thick-skulled ginger freckled fuck-” she seethed.

“- what do you think? About- about blades?”

“Hawke,” he grunted, digging his feet in harder and clinging to her solid middle. “If you interrupt, then the guardsman will likely flee and this will be all for naught.”

“I’ve changed my mind, it wasn’t Isabela we needed, it was Sebastian.” Anders said, his eyes rolled skyward as if pleading with the Maker. “That woman needs divine intervention.”

“I could invoke Mythal and Elgar’nan in union prayers.” The witch offered, idly tracing whimsical patterns in the sand with the tip of her staff. “We normally only use them when it’s a courtship or marriage in jeopardy, but this might count.”

Hawke cocked her head and stopped straining against him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he released her waist and stepped away. “How long would that take?”

“Oh, it depends.” The witch said with a small shouldered shrug. “I’d need a fire, some specific herbs, incense, the skin and heart of a fresh bear carcass-”

Frowning, Hawke shook her head. “There’s no bears this far outland.”

“Would a mabari work?” The mage wondered, his head turning back towards the slain pack of dogs.

Glaring at them all, Fenris crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re not entertaining this.”

“Why not?” Hawke asked, narrowing her eyes at him. “It’s not blood magic, it’s just religious custom.” Hesitating, her eyes cut to the witch and she chewed at the corner of her lip. “Right?”

“All symbolic,” the blood mage agreed, nodding her head eagerly.

“Would the elvhen gods even be interested in hearing prayers for two humans?” Anders asked, seeming genuine in his curiosity.

The witch hesitated before tilting her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps not, but it couldn’t hurt to try.”

“We haven’t the _time _for this.” Fenris groaned.__

“I hate it, but he’s likely right.” Hawke admitted, kicking restlessly at a stone and glaring back down towards their ally. “As much as I’d rather be herb picking and indulging in some light ritualistic sacrifice, it’d eat up the rest of the evening. Alright, anyone else have any bright ideas?”

“We could abandon this mess to go play cards with Varric and Isabela.” The mage muttered.

“The first intelligent statement of the day,” Fenris agreed under his breath. The mage started and gave him a look that somehow encompassed surprise and suspicion, but when no jibe or insult followed, the expression melted into reluctant pleasure.

Ears burning, Fenris huffed and looked away.

The witch, once again tucking herself neatly against the mage’s side, beamed at them both.

*****

In the end, Hawke decided to give up the subterfuge and challenge the issue head on.

Long overdue if he was to be asked.

Fenris believed the entire ordeal was doomed to disaster, but by this time, his patience had worn too thin to rightly care. Even the witch, with her seemingly endless optimism, had rolled her large green eyes at least twice.

His respect for the guard captain was hanging on by a sheer thread.

“Well, guardsman. Good patrol. I think I’ll-” Aveline trailed off, a look of confused fear fixing itself to her features as she crested the hill to find them waiting. The guardsman, to his credit, was making a half decent attempt to hide his own confusion. With the evening he’d suffered through thus far, Fenris approved, and wondered if the man was any good at cards.

“Hawke,” she sputtered, her tone wobbling between shrill and cheerful and landing somewhere in the cringing middle. “What are you-”

“Aveline,” Hawke snapped. Her hands fell to her hips, and for all that she denied her mothering ways, there was little other comparison to be made. “Enough.”

“Hawke, _don’t_.”

Looking between them all, the guardsman’s attention seemed unable to settle between their bloodied weapons and the guard captain who refused to look in his direction. Fenris pitied the man. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Kiss her!” The witch squeaked eagerly, grabbing onto the mage’s arm and shaking it as she bounced in anticipation. The mage, to his credit, stood and allowed himself to be jostled as he stared at the pair in bewildered frustration. “You heard her. Are you blind? Kiss the woman.”

“Captain?”

Aveline sputtered, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair, and Fenris found himself groaning. “Isn’t it obvious? The woman is attempting to court you.”

Stepping back, the guardsman glanced between them all in clear discomfort. “I think... I think I’ll return to the barracks.”

Sucking in a breath through her teeth, Hawke cringed as the man retreated, and the expression only deepened when Aveline spun to her with fire glinting in her eyes. “You’re going to fix this. He’ll file a complaint, or ask for a transfer. Now, Hawke.”

“City folks really _are_ bad at this,” the witch whispered with a shake of her head, turning large eyes back towards himself and then the mage. Shrugging, the human didn’t seem inclined to disagree.

Watching Aveline march Hawke down the dunes, Fenris found he couldn’t either.

*****

He had retreated into his manor for the evening, a bottle of wine and his practice reading on the agenda, when a prickle itched along his skull and made him pause. It was nothing, merely a sudden peculiarity as the witch and mage flashed through his mind’s eye, but his feet and hands stilled all the same.

The walk back to the city had been uneventful. Aveline had all but marched Hawke back to the Viscount’s keep by her ear, and weary and chagrined, he and the mages had followed. They had parted ways at the gate, but the witch had caught his eye with a small smile before turning and making her way back to her hovel within the alienage.

His eyes had not tracked the mage. Instead he had sighed and began the long march to Hightown with the shadowed halls of the manor a promise that awaited him. But his ears had perked and listened to the shuffle of the human’s boots, and the rhythmic tap of his staff against stone.

The evening was concluded. He was free to spend the few hours before sleep as he pleased.

And yet. He hesitated.

There was a question on his tongue. A question of whether or not the mage had indeed followed the winding and dark paths of the undercity back to his clinic. Or, after a day of having the witch’s small palm warm against the crook of his elbow, had he been lured to her hovel.

It was no business of his.

He forced himself further into the manor. Dust clung to and coated the soles of his feet, but it was a familiar grit he had come to associate with something that almost felt like home. Threadbare and unraveling rugs, no doubt once of some great cost, protected him from the chill of the stone.

Fenris passed over those same rugs, mindlessly noting their faded and mildewed patterns, before he realized that he was pacing and that the twinge in his face was from the clenching of his teeth.

He was no creature of curiosity. Healthy paranoia, yes, and even the wariness that followed. But he was _curious_ and it was a maddening tingle that tickled at his mind, scratching until irritated, and he huffed. Curiosity was useless, would serve him no greater purpose, and he should be satisfied with what he already had. A bottle of wine, and the freedom to do as little or much as he liked within the four walls he had laid claim to.

There was so much he could distract himself with. His practice reading and writing. A meal of salted beef and cheese. Stretches to keep his stiff joints limber and if he dared, to even make an early night of it.

Still, his feet stubbornly would not cross into the rear of the manor.

Frustration bubbled, and his teeth clenched again.

However, resignation soon followed. With a scoff he could direct at no one but himself, he turned back towards his front door, and the long meandering path of cobblestones and stairs which would take him to the Alienage.

*****

First, he waited and watched.

From across the square he was able to wait at the stairs. He stood there, leaning against old stone, with his breath tight in his chest and his eyes keen as he studied the still doorway to the witch’s home. At any moment the door could open and feathered shoulders hunch and exit, but silence stretched, and the door remained shut.

Patience in the hunt was familiar. He waited, eyes tracking over the yard and the denizens of the Alienage, and even over rooftops lest there be some bandit or slaver foolish enough to act as he stood vigilant. But the moment stretched, longer and longer, until the sun was set and the elves cleared their work and wares of the evening, retreating wearily into their homes. A few men sat on crates drinking from bottles of brown glass, and he ignored their occasional bouts of laughter to watch.

The longer he waited, the more the restlessness crept up, and the more foolish he felt.

It was time wasted. Surely it was nothing, and his actions to walk there had been for poor impulse. If the witch had brought the mage to dinner then they would have finished their meal, and the man would have left by now.

Fenris had always left by now.

Swallowing, he remembered the casual way with which the woman had placed her hands on the human, and his throat tightened and the warmth in his belly lurched.

Pushing away from the wall, his feet carried him down the stairs, and across the square.

A closer look couldn’t hurt. He could knock, check, just to ensure... something. That she had made it home when they had parted ways at the gate. She was a blood mage and a formidable opponent in battle, but she was also naïve and kind hearted, and could be misled.

There was no telling what he had expected to find when he reached the witch’s door. The entryway was as dull and shabby as it always was, and while it was late, stragglers still lingered in corners of the square. Eyes pressed on him, most likely the drinking men making Fenris’s nape prickle, but he ignored them to stand at the hovel’s door and glare, as if some answer would manifest and he could return to the easy solitude of Hightown.

Instead only silence and patchwork wood greeted him, and with a sigh, he raised his hand to knock.

His stomach twisted in anticipation. Of whether the mage would answer the door, showing him with certainty that he had been drawn there after all. Or that he would be there, at the witch’s back, and seeing them together he would have some piece of a nebulous half formed puzzle, one which he could not help but pick at, but dared not know the final shape of.

What that knowledge was worth to him, he did not know. All he knew was that the curiosity was a plague, one which itched and burned, and the restlessness of his mind and limbs would not be sated until he knew _something_.

The thin wood rattled and his breath caught, the drumming of expectation in his ear silencing the background chatter until the door opened and the witch looked up in surprise.

“Hell-- _oh!_ Fenris, hello! How unexpected, I didn’t think I’d see you this evening. At least not until we had supper on Tuesday. Oh, Dread Wolf take me, it isn’t Tuesday, is it? I’m so sorry, I must have gotten my days all twisted and turned about, I could have sworn it was--”

“It is not,” he corrected her, eyes flicking over her shoulder to see if any other bodies waited inside. All he saw was dimness, the faint light of candles burning and a clear table. If she was entertaining guests, she did not do so in over a meal as she had done with him.

He refused to entertain the notion of where else she may have invited guests to within her home.

“I merely wished to,” he paused, his mind drawing a blank on what to say. Curiosity had driven him there, but now that he had arrived, his plan was formless and non-existent. Even if the mage had been there as he suspected, he’d had no idea what he would have said to explain himself.

The witch’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ and the tips of her pale ears pinked.

“Did you wish to see me, Fenris?” She asked, hands clasping in front of her and diminutive shoulders raising up. Her eyes were large and looking at him expectantly, and finding his tongue struck dumb, he nodded for lack of anything else to say.

Beaming at him, she opened her door further.

“Silly man, you can visit me whenever you like! I wish you had said so earlier, if only so I could have had something ready. Did you eat? Not that I think you don’t feed yourself, Creator’s no, I know men take care of themselves just fine. But I’d have made sure I had something ready.” She blathered and tutted, ears flicking as she thought at speeds he was sure would dizzy him if he could hear them, and ushered him inside.

“I have meat and cheese at home,” he insisted, if only to prevent her from stopping at that very moment to craft some meal at his expense.

“But you aren’t at home,” she said, lighting more candles with a wave of her hand that made him wince when his brands flared, and flitted over to her pantry. With quick slim fingers she began pulling out items with her back turned, and feeling off-footed and foolish, he scuffed his soles against the worn floor.

“That is true,” he admitted, ears warming. “Still, there is no reason for you to make the effort. You should save your food for yourself.”

The witch tutted, cutting a thick slice of mealy bread for the plate she was preparing. “It isn’t a waste. I enjoy doing these things, Fenris. In the clan, we all take care of each other. Everything is shared.”

He nearly said _but we are not clan_ before his teeth stopped his tongue. Clearing his throat, he allowed himself to step closer, his eyes taking in the room. It was as he always remembered it, cluttered but tidy, with no clue to any changes or visitors.

He nearly scoffed at himself. Just what had he expected, stray feathers on the floor?

“Still. You have expenses to pay, and I already take advantage of your hospitality.” Pulling out one of the small stools from her table, he sat himself down stiffy, watching her continue to add things to the plate.

“A meal between friends isn’t taking advantage,” she denied, adding a handful of dried fruit. “And I owed you a copper. We can call this one me paying you back if you like?” She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder, the candlelight and shadows playing across her face in a way that made his stomach twist and warm.

The corner of his lips twitched against his better judgement.

“You’ll have overpaid if that is to be the case.”

The witch giggled and turned. “Maybe so, but I can’t help but spoil a little.” She walked in soft doe footed steps and say the plate in front of him, and his eyes looked over the offering of bread, cheese, dried fruit, and a thick green paste he recognized as dried peas, having been ground and then boiled into mash.

Nodding his thanks to her, he began breaking the bread and using it to scoop at the pea paste. “If you must spoil me,” he said, the heat creeping from his ears to neck as he focused on his plate. “Then I should return the favor, should I not? Allow me to purchase the meat for our future meals.”

Though he was not looking at her, he could hear the amused nose wrinkle in the witch’s tone. “That defeats the purpose of me paying you back, doesn’t it?”

Fenris raised one shoulder in a shrug. Despite the plainness of the dish, there was a flavor to it he could not quite place. Spices were expensive, but somehow even something like the mash, which should be pasty and tasteless, had a distinct flavor.

“You have provided for many meals now, more complex than this. I often buy my own meats from the Hightown butcher. It would be no trouble for me to return your consideration by providing the meat for our suppers.”

The witch fell quiet, and when he raised his head to look at her she was staring at him, her eyes wide and her mouth caught in an open pout of surprise. Her raised his brows in confusion and she gave herself a small and literal shake, before clasping her hands in front of herself.

“You wish to,” she said, almost shyly. “Provide for our meals?”

Pausing with food in hand, he wondered if he had mis-stepped, but nodded.

She bit at her lower lip before bouncing on her toes, her smile bursting from her like a ray of new daylight. “Well, I can hardly decline such an offer, can I?” Her voice went slightly quivering and confused, he found his lips twitching further up, if only from being caught in the spell of such confusing but genuine delight.

Clapping her hands together, the witch turned, and went back to her pantry.

“Speaking of, did I tell you that Hawke came earlier, before you. You’ll never guess what she told me!”

He saw no correlation between the topics, but still dumbfounded, he tucked back into his plate. “Most likely not.”

“Well, she told me that Aveline and the guardsman? He didn’t file a complaint or request a transfer like she was fussing about. Hawke didn’t say for certain but she—well. What she did say left quite a bit to the imagination, but not quite enough. Apparently after the Donnic and Aveline spent some... um. _Alone_ time in her office, she came out and told Hawke that everything was just fine.”

Dropping a dried piece of apple he stared at the witch’s back. “Aveline? In her _office_?”

The witch turned to him, her face twisted in scandalized delight. “Yes!”

Blinking, he shook his head. “Incredible. A woman of her morals and integrity. I never would have expected it.”

Merrill giggled. “Oh, I think she’s a bit like a girl around him. All flustered and in the heat of courtship. It’s adorable. And, well. Isabela always says she needed it, and perhaps she did?”

His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps, but it is not our place to speculate on the woman’s personal affairs. Let us be glad for her happiness, and nothing else.”

The witch continued giggling and her dark hair bobbed as she nodded. “Oh, absolutely. But I do hope it works out for the long haul. Oh, could you imagine a wedding? I’ve never been to a human wedding before. And Aveline is so lovely, I’m sure she’d make a beautiful bride. Do you think she’d wear a dress or her armor?” The woman paused, seeming to consider it. “Do they make bridal armor?”

His jaw worked up and down as he considered the question. Brows pinching, he inclined his head. “I do not know.”

“I’ll need to ask,” she said, coming to some kind of resolution in her mind. “I need to know more about human weddings and courtship, and well, if Aveline is going through one, then it should be alright to ask, shouldn’t it?”

Shrugging, he picked at his food. “I see no reason why not, as long as your questions are tactful.”

The witch hummed, and stretching on her toes, pulled a woven basket down from the top shelf of her pantry and began placing carefully packed items inside. Nose wrinkling, Fenris looked to his plate, and then to whatever it was the witch was doing. They had already agreed he had food at home, and that he intended to cover the cost of meats for future meals, so he dared to hope she was not so fussy that she would attempt to send even more of her food home with him.

Thankfully, the witch said nothing, and continued humming under her breath as he ate, wrapping the top of the basket in a clean cloth before darting across the room to shuffle through her shelves. Moments later she flitted back, and sat a ball of twine on top of the bundle.

Eyebrows crinkling, Fenris chewed his food slowly, and regarded the twine ball suspiciously.

“I was under the impression,” he said slowly. “That you were finding it easier to get about these days.”

“Oh?” The witch said, startling and looking at him curiously. She turned back to look at her ball of twine. “Oh! Well yes, the Alienage and Lowtown are much easier. I almost never get lost anymore. But Darktown is so... well, dark. And twisty. Oh, Creators, it’s like a maze down there! I go up one stair and down another and then up and down and the next thing I know, I’ve passed the same poison seller three times over.”

The dormant ache in his stomach gave a sharp flare, and his mouth went dry. “Darktown?”

She nodded. “I have some dried fish that I was going to save for Tuesday but—well, you hate fish, but it was on sale and all I had. But if you’re going to be providing,” her ears went oddly pink as she said so. “Then I don’t need to save them. As well as a few other things you know, you can’t make a meal of only fish!”

“Darktown,” he said again, intently, looking at her expectantly.

Merrill flushed. “Poor Anders has been looking peaky so I thought I’d take him lunch tomorrow. All that Darktown air can’t be good for him, and Creators know that the food they have down there is rubbish. So.” She paused and patted the twine ball. “I’ll just need to keep myself from getting lost. If only so I can get to him before someone tries to knick my poor basket!”

It was the admission he had wanted, but now that he had it, he knew not what to do with it.

Sitting at her table, eating her meal, and watching her shift restlessly and look at him expectantly, it was as though his tongue has stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had to swallow several times, clearing the dryness, and the warmth in his stomach only grew and expanded, until it overcame his freed tongue.

“If you find Darktown so untravellable,” he said, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. “Then I shall accompany you.”

The witch beamed, and Fenris wondered just what kind of web he had tangled himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game called: Spot the Cultural Misunderstanding ¯\\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯


End file.
